Like Him
by SplittingImage4
Summary: Sherlock hasn't seen his son in three years. He was never a very involved father, but he knows if things don't change he may lose the boy forever. When the boy shows up at 221B Baker Street on the night of his sixteenth birthday with a case and an attitude, the two must put aside their tumultuous past and work together. (Follows canon events of Season 4)
1. Prologue: Sixteen

This was hard. Infuriatingly hard. Such a trivial task like the one at hand should not have been causing the detective so much grief, yet Sherlock was locked in a heated battle with his decision making abilities; the ones that were usually on his side. Today, however, every possible choice seemed wrong. It had never gotten easier, even after all this time. At some point, he finally had to accept that he just wasn't good at this sort of thing. Of course, that didn't relieve him of this responsibility, the one that came every single year. Still, he hoped it would lower the expectations. He wasn't sure how long he stood in front of that rack of colorful cards, and had it not been for John's aggravated throat-clearing, he might have stayed there all day. Finally he reached up with one gloved hand and paused dramatically before a card with a basset hound wearing a party hat.

"How about this one?" Sherlock pointed. He liked the dog.

John smirked, pulling it off the rack and opening it up.

"'I thought I smelled cake. Wishing you a barking good birthday,'" He read, rolling his eyes. "Oh, yeah, funny _and_ heartwarming. He'll love it."

"No good?" One thing Sherlock had gotten better at over time was picking up on John's blasé sarcasm. "This one, then?" He pointed to a bright blue card with a picture of a whale spouting confetti.

"Enough with the animals, he's turning sixteen, not two," John spun the rack around to reveal an agreeably more tasteful array of images.

Sixteen. It was the third time John had mentioned the age, as though it was something special. When Sherlock turned sixteen, he certainly had felt no significant change. But other people were different, he reminded himself. He did have to admit that the sixteen years had gone by fascinatingly fast.

Sherlock blew a puff of air out through pursed lips.

"You know what? You're the expert. Perhaps _you_ should just pick something you think he'll like, and I'll be over there looking at the tabloids."

He made to walk away, but one firm hand held out by John kept him in his place.

"Sherlock." He hated when he used that voice. It was so condescending. Surely it was Sherlock's job to be condescending, and not the other way around. Still, he sighed, and refaced the rack of excruciating choices.

"You pick out all my presents for Rosie," He pointed out, trying his best not to sound whiny.

"Yeah, because I don't want a repeat of what happened at her fifth birthday party."

"We found the rat, didn't we?"

"The _point_ is," John narrowed his eyes. "This is different, and you know it. You're a grown man. I'm here to help, not to do it for you."

"Fine, then, my trusted advisor. How about…"

He trailed off. Sherlock stared in silence at the taunting birthday wishes before him. None were right. Or maybe all of them were. Finally, John sighed and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"We go through this every year," John said gently. "It doesn't have to be this tough. You _know_ him. Now, get on with it and pick a good bloody card. It's the thought that counts, anyway."

Sherlock knew they were lies. That he knew him well enough to choose a birthday card. That it was the thought that counted. He didn't, and it wasn't, and John was perfectly aware. Still, Sherlock didn't argue, allowing his friend the satisfaction of believing he'd provided some comfort.

Roughly half an hour later, the two men left the store with a bag of crisps, a pack of nicotine patches, and a card with a watercolor painting of a New Zealand landscape.

"…and then of course there was the sniffling, not a sign of a cold, but of _allergies_ , from which we can easily deduce she'd been spending time around cats. Not her own, of course, what woman with a cat allergy would own cats? Him, though, he had two. Maybe three, wouldn't rule it out. But his ring had _clearly_ -"

"Yes, yes, the cashier is sleeping with the bagger. I _believe_ you, Sherlock," John said with a mouthful of crisps. He sensed the tiredness in John's voice. The man was funny in that respect; at a certain point, he stopped needing to know _how_ Sherlock knew everything. Sometimes, he just loyally took his word for it. At least for the little things. Yet, any conclusion drawn without indisputable evidence is not admissible. Or fun.

"Well…not for long, anyway, she's going to end it. The sex isn't worth being around the feline dander."

John gave him a smile that was an odd combination of proud and sad.

"You did well, you know. With the card. Remembering he likes _Lord of the Rings,_ I mean, that's big."

As usual, John saw right through his eagerness to prove himself and moved on to exactly what he didn't want to talk about.

"Hardly," Sherlock mumbled. "He wanted to watch them all, last time. I think I was busy with a case or…something. You should've heard him, though, going on about the cinematography and composition."

"Mention it when you write the card. Try to connect."

Sherlock chuckled softly. Connecting had never, and would never be his strong suit, even with someone he was bound to by societal dictation, law, and blood. _Especially_ with someone of that nature.

"It's…probable I've already severed that relationship beyond a hope of rekindling," He murmured.

"You know what I always say. It's never too late. He _knows_ you still care."

John, ever the sentimentalist. He knew he should've heeded every word of parenting advice his friend had given him, after watching how well he did with Rosie. Often he had felt a surge of uncharacteristic jealousy when he would watch the man play with his daughter, or hear her tell him 'I love you.' When he first experienced it, he thought he was going mad. He could never be a parental figure, not even when circumstance thrust the role upon him. It wasn't his nature. It wasn't his purpose. Why, then, did he still _want_ to have hope when he thought about the boy?

John could continue telling him it wasn't too late for years to come, it wouldn't make a difference. For Sherlock, 'too late' had happened ages ago. Too much time had already passed. The boy was almost full grown, and he'd made it painstakingly clear he wanted little to do with Sherlock.

"Would you consider writing the card for me?"

"Sherlock…" John began, shaking his head.

"Had to try. Give Watson my love."

Sherlock hailed a cab with ease and opened the door, nodding to John before sliding in.

"We'll be on Baker Street Friday evening. Mrs. Hudson already invited us and Molly for dinner, so do try to put on a good mood, yeah? Rosie misses you," said John.

Dinner on Friday. Clearly, they didn't want him to be alone that day. Before shutting the door, Sherlock gave him what he hoped was a half-smile. As the cab pulled away, he didn't have to look back to know John's eyes were still on him. Watching him from behind whenever he was concerned was one of John's many annoying habits. He sighed, taking out his phone and huddling deeper into the collar of his coat. Two texts. Both from Lestrade. Another case so soon? Maybe it wasn't such a bad day after all.

 _(1/2) Smith wanted me to pass on thanks for last week. Says she owes you big, wants to give you free membership passes to the bowling alley. If you don't want them I'll_

 _(2/2) accept on your behalf._

Alas. No good deed goes unpunished. Shoving his phone back in his pocket, he pressed his forehead against the window, steaming the glass with his breath.

When he arrived back at the flat, he was grateful for the faint whir of Mrs. Hudson's hoovering. She wouldn't hear him come in over the noise. That would grant him approximately eleven minutes of peace.

Sherlock stumbled through his door and unwound the scarf from his neck. He tossed the card on the massively cluttered work table. He threw the brand new box of nicotine patches in the waste bin. At last, he hoisted open the window and grabbed a cigarette from the half-empty pack lying open beside his laptop. But where did he put his damn lighter…

Cigarette in mouth, he fumbled around the mess until his hands sought what they desired. The flame was an inch from the tip when the door opened and Mrs. Hudson poked her head in. Damn. He'd miscalculated. Sherlock quickly dropped the lighter back into the sea of litter, and the cig along with it.

"I do miss the days when you were a fan of _knocking,_ " He said irritably

"My house, dear," Mrs. Hudson replied, bustling inside with a small tray. "Thought you might like a cuppa."

She knew it was that time of year. She always had a knack for remembering important dates, and unfortunately this one never slipped her mind either. He didn't want her pity tea, but he'd learned there was no avoiding his landlady's overzealous caretaking. Sighing, he gestured over to the kitchen table where she set down the tray and began to pour. There was only one cup, as ever. At least she knew enough to let him drink alone.

"Sherlock, why do you leave the window open?" Mrs. Hudson chastised. "You'll catch your death of cold!"

What irony that would be. After facing murderers day in and day out, to succumb to the common cold would be laughable indeed.

"The breeze helps me think," he lied.

"You're thinking about him, aren't you?" said Mrs. Hudson in such a sympathetic voice it made his skin crawl. "I know it's this Friday. Sixteen, my god! Seems like just yesterday he was toddling around the flat, nearly giving me a heart attack! You really did nothing to baby-proof the place-"

" _Thank-you_ for the tea, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, opening the door wide to encourage the woman's exit. She got the message. With a shaky sigh, she moved towards the door. She stopped before she left, one hand on Sherlock's arm.

"He'll come around. Just be patient," She said, giving him a light squeeze.

"Good night," was his solemn reply

When the door was shut and locked, Sherlock returned to the table where the card lay, its bright colors making it stand out against the bleak assortment of case notes and post-its. It would be better to get it over with, then and there. He procured a pen from the disorder, flipped open the card, and began to write.

 _Basil,_

 _Happy birthday. Hope you like the card, apparently the mountain in the way back is the one they used for Mount Doom._

 _If what everyone says is true, sixteen is a monumental year in your life where you'll start to learn who you are and what you want. But then again, those were things you've never had any trouble knowing. So, cheers to a year that, with any luck, will be just fruitful as the years thus far, and the years to come._

 _Your father,_

 _SH_

He signed his name with a flourish, then read over his work a few times. Part of him wished he hadn't written in permanent ink, but it was what it was. He slid it into an envelope, sealed it shut, and scrawled the address, leaving the name for last. Basil Gillette. It didn't exactly roll off the tongue, but then again the name hadn't been his idea…

* * *

 _16 years ago_

 _He had been perched precariously on the edge of the hospital bed, inexplicably cautious about getting too close. He hadn't been there when it happened, but he hadn't left the room since. Whether he'd provided much of a comfort, however, was another issue._

 _"Basil? That's what you're going with?" He'd scoffed. "It sounds like the name of an old man. Or a lonely botanist." She hadn't even bothered to look up from her enchanted gaze at the squirming bundle in her arms, but the annoyance in her voice was clear despite her low tone._

 _"It's Greek. St. Basil the Great was a Bishop in the fourth century, a theologian and caregiver to the underprivileged," had been her firm defense. "_ _And technically it means 'royal' and 'kingly', so that's cool."_

 _"Did you know all that off the top of your head or did you conduct extensive baby name research?"_

 _She cracked a smile._

 _"A bit of both. It was also my grandfather's name. You got something better, Holmes?"_

 _She never did like calling him by his first name._

 _"No, definitely not. Basil Gillette, then. It's…nice," He had conceded._

 _"Basil Holmes has a better ring to it."_

* * *

Sherlock took one last look at the card before setting it back down on the table. If he mailed it tomorrow morning, it would still arrive by Thursday. He'd never missed a birthday since the first-he supposed it was his way of making up for it.

The tea would surely be cold by now; it had taken him an inordinate amount of time to produce the letter. His hand involuntarily reached for the cigarette once more, and the lighter beside it. He leaned his head out the window into the frosty November night, and took a long drag. Immediately, his muscles relaxed and he felt the smoke curl through him like an antidote to a hidden poison.

He was Sherlock Holmes. He'd smoked through a pack and a half in the last twenty-four hours. He'd solved five small-scale cases that week. And he hadn't seen his son in over three years.


	2. Happy Birthday

London felt excruciatingly boring that week, despite the holidays so rapidly approaching. Normally, these days would offer up a few intriguing missing person's reports, at least one homicide, and certainly dozens of spousal conflicts. Yet Sherlock had gone too long without a decent mystery. John had been working at the doctor's office full-time recently to save up for Rosie to comfortably attend University next year, which left Sherlock to fend for himself much of the time. John would still text him throughout the day with cases he thought might entice him, but none were up to his usual standard.

By the time Friday rolled around, he had only left his flat to buy chips and a fresh pack of cigarettes. He'd only accepted two clients; a balding Italian man wondering if one of his multiple young lovers was hiding something, and a child whose dog had been missing for a four days. The lover turned out to be his ex-wife in disguise who had been tailing the man since he left Italy, and the dog had been put down by the child's parents and his fate concealed with a lie. Solved them each in ten minutes. Simple. Elementary. Depressing…

He was in his robe when John came through the door, lying on the couch after a lengthy bath. John took one look at him and sighed, putting his hands on his hips.

"You're not even dressed," He had a refreshing way of stating the obvious. "What're you doing?"

"Drying," Sherlock replied, kicking his feet up to slide himself into an upright position. "Why're you here so early, don't you have work?"

"It's 6pm, Sherlock."

"Is it really?" He got up and went to the window, drawing the blinds with unnecessary force. Sure enough, the sun was setting. Come to think of it, he hadn't looked at a clock all day.

"Molly and Rosie are already downstairs helping with dinner. Put on a shirt and come down," John said. He walked back out again, leaving the door open. After a brief moment, he walked back in, pausing in the doorway.

"Are you….are you doing alright?"

He seldom asked that question, as he knew that Sherlock never gave an accurate response. As ever, though, John couldn't help but try.

* * *

 _"Are you alright?"_

 _As the car pulled away down the street, Sherlock could still see the top of the all-too elaborate car seat he had just fastened the fragile child into. He had wondered dully what the boy would look like the next time he saw him-would he be walking? Talking? It was only drizzling, but they'd been out on the street long enough for his hair to be wet. The goodbyes had gone on for a tedious amount of time .He had done his best to assure her it wouldn't be forever. That it wouldn't be long, a year tops. He would take care of things, and then when it was safe, they could return to London. She was no fool, though, and in the end perhaps her agreeance with those promises was her attempt at comforting_ _ **him**_ _more than the other way around. True, he'd grown so accustomed to having her around—having the two of them around—the concept of going without them, even for more than a week, was…complicated to imagine. It was for the best, of course. She'd said so. He'd said so. Mycroft had said so._

 _It took Sherlock a moment to register the question. A hand on his shoulder had grounded him once more, and he looked at John by his side. Like he always was._

 _"I'm fine, John."_

* * *

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock said now, shutting the blinds again and beginning to untie his robe. "Why wouldn't I be?"

John gave him an appraising look. He began glancing around the flat, and Sherlock knew exactly what kind of evidence he was searching for. However, his friend would not find any needles in this vicinity. Instead of pressing, John shrugged and turned around again.

"They're making bangers and mash, per Rosie's request. Molly brought wine. It'll be _nice_ ," He said as he trudged down the stairs.

"I'm not complaining!" Sherlock protested. "Be down in a mo'."

When John was out of sight, he threw off his robe entirely, flinging it onto the couch. He went into his bedroom, and slid on his light blue button down shirt and dependable black dress pants. As he was securing his belt in front of his bureau, he caught sight of himself in the mirror for the first time in a while. He could see why John had been worried. He looked paler than normal, which was saying something, and his eyes seemed sunken and dead. With a small noise of disgust, he ran his fingers through his hair, giving it a shake to bring some life back into it. It was good enough. The people downstairs had seen him in worse states, after all.

It had been a kind gesture of Mrs. Hudson to host, as Sherlock was not about to let her clean his place despite her insisting on it all month. It was obvious she wanted this to be a nice evening, and thus having a meal in her own dining room was the only option.

When he entered, everyone was in the kitchen. Rosie and Molly stood in front of the oven, watching it as though it were the telly. John's daughter was as tall as Molly now, and Sherlock suspected she wasn't quite done growing. John had a glass in his hand and was chatting to Mrs. Hudson, who was the first to notice Sherlock.

"Oh, you're just in time! Would you mind setting the table, dear?"

"Not at all…"

Molly and Rosie turned around at once, bestowing warm smiles upon him. Rosie abandoned the fork she was holding and rushed over to Sherlock, throwing her arms around him. Her ponytail swung behind her freely. Her wide eyes and dainty smirk so resembled Mary's. He couldn't help but feel better when he looked at her. She was the only one who was allowed to hug him.

"Hi!" She greeted, practically bouncing at the sight of him.

"Hello, Watson. Been a while," Sherlock said fondly.

"I know, I'm sorry. Rackets club ended today, though, so I can start coming over after school again!"

John caught wind of the conversation and moseyed over to put an arm around his daughter.

"If you're going to start doing that again, you have to _promise_ to have your homework done by the time I pick you up," John kissed the top of her head while the girl rolled her eyes to hide her embarrassment.

"Please, homework is a facet of public education designed to induce stress and competitive personalities into our children. And…" Sherlock caught John's eye. "I'll see to it she finishes every bit."

Rosie laughed and returned to helping Molly with the cooking.

"How are you, Molly?" Sherlock asked as he bent down beside her to collect the dinner plates. As always, she seemed surprised by the question—or more by the fact that he was bothering to ask—and suddenly became very invested in the sausages she was turning.

"Um, good! Fine! Same as ever, really," She said brightly. "You?"

"Same as ever."

Dinner was a friendly affair. Molly was awkward and kind, John was humble and collected, Rosie was talkative, and Mrs. Hudson had a bit too much wine. It was familiar, and almost repulsively…normal. Sherlock had decided long ago that normal wasn't all bad. Not when it was like this.

Afterwards, Sherlock and Rosie took on the job of washing dishes. They stood side by side in front of the sink, falling into a methodical rinsing and drying routine while the adults chatted in the sitting room. He was grateful to be out of range of their concerned stares. They'd all been overtly careful not to mention anything about Basil, as if words like "birthday" and "son" would set him off. He couldn't understand why. It wasn't as if he harbored any resentment towards the date. Shouldn't that be obvious?

He was only half listening to Rosie as she described at length her extracurricular activities and what she thought of her new teacher. Nodding slowly, he watched her soap studded hands wringing the washcloth.

"He's truly just an egomaniac," She ended her rant on Mr. Kent.

"You've dealt with your fair share of those," Sherlock noted quietly, earning himself a light laugh.

"I must have a type."

"Speaking of," began Sherlock with his eyebrows raised. "Does John know about your date tonight?"

The plate Rosie was holding slid through her fingers and crashed into the sink. Cringing at the loud noise she'd made, she peered in at her father and godmothers to ensure they hadn't noticed. They hadn't. She picked up the plate again, giving Sherlock a wry smile.

"Okay, I fold. What gave me away?"

"You've been glancing at the kitchen clock all evening. Your nails have been freshly painted, and not in the rushed way you usually do them, you took great care. And, you're wearing a beautiful dress under that cardigan, nice enough to go out in but not appropriate enough for dinner with family."

She sighed and turned the faucet on, most likely to provide enough white noise to keep their discussion from carrying to the next room.

"Damn. I knew the nails would blow my cover," Rosie said, shaking her head. "Thanks, though."

"For?"

"For your discretion. Not telling my dad. Telling me my dress is beautiful. The usual," She grinned.

"Who is the lucky person?"

"Not really any of your business."

"Just be…safe." Sherlock never really knew what to say in these situations. Rosie had started dating over a year ago and it had been a strange adjustment. He just said things he thought John would say. "And if they hurt you…"

"You'll come after them, I know the drill." She patted him on the arm.

"Something like that."

Rosie finished cleaning her pile of dishes, then leaned against the counter to face Sherlock. When she looked at him, it was always without judgement. Even when she was worried about him, she never let on. It was one of many qualities that made her excellent company.

"Dad and I called Basil earlier to wish him happy birthday. Got the voicemail," She said casually.

"Probably out with his mother. They usually do something."

"Think he'll visit soon?"

"No."

She let it drop, then and there. The two joined the others for one cup of tea, or two, before parting. As always, Sherlock was the first to get up to leave.

"Sure you don't want to stay for a quick game?" John asked, though he already knew the answer.

"No, I'd better get upstairs. Got to call the boy before I go to bed," Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets. He always waited until late to call, so that he'd be the last one of the day. The last one in his head.

"Give Basil our love!" Molly called on his way out the door. He gave them all a typical smile and a nod before making his way up the stairs to his empty flat.

He had left his mobile on his bedroom dresser. Phones had been banned from "family dinners" by Mrs. Hudson a few years back, and he reluctantly respected her wishes after her tearful accusation that he and Rosie loved their screens more than them. She'd been a bit drunk at the time, but he supposed her feelings were valid.

The bright light hurt his eyes in the dark room, and it took a moment for the blurry graphics to clarify themselves. One missed call from Mycroft. Didn't leave a message, or even a text. Unusual, but not enough for him to care.

He pulled up his contacts and took his time scrolling to the one he wanted. Phone conversations had been the main platform for their relationship as of late, but even those were becoming few and far between. They hadn't always been…

* * *

 _"Hold on, I'll put him on…"_

 _"The boy's one, don't put him on," Sherlock had sighed into the phone. "He can't speak. You know he can't speak, yes?"_

 _"He can still hear you, stupid. Just say hello and happy birthday. Humor me. Maybe he'll do one of his gurgling word-like things."_

 _"Alright."_

 _Even as she was surely holding the phone up to the child's ear, the faint sound of her laughter and encouragement carried through. He had tried to paint a vivid picture of what they looked like at that moment, but too many pieces were missing._

 _"Happy birthday," Sherlock said to the small black square that was somehow supposed to substitute for his son. Rustling came from the other end._

 _"Did you get that? Did you two have a lively debate?" She had come back on._

 _"Just a lot of loud breathing on his end, I'm afraid."_

 _"Try again tomorrow. He's changing fast, Holmes. By then I'll have him reciting Shakespeare."_

 _"I don't doubt it."_

* * *

A loud rapping at the door brought Sherlock out of the involuntary sleep he'd begun to drift into. His phone lay on his chest. Grumbling incoherently, he checked the time. 11:30pm. At least he hadn't wasted away the entire night. He shifted to his feet, throwing the mobile on the bed and meandering out to face the unwanted visitor. The knocking grew louder, persistent as a drum beat.

"One moment, dammit," He muttered. He had locked the door after coming up, and it took him a few annoyed seconds in his haziness to _un_ lock it again. "Mrs. Hudson, if that's you, I meant it when I said I don't want those leftovers…"

Sherlock swung the door open. There, standing in the hallway, was a boy with unkempt black hair and light grey eyes. Like his. The kid was wearing a charcoal beanie and a flannel under a jean jacket. Unlike him. He had dark circles under his eyes, indicating he hadn't slept in some time. There was a cut on the side of his nose, presumably a result of the nervous habit he'd had since the age of ten where he would unconsciously scratch that spot repeatedly. His fingernails were dirty, either for lack of upkeep or from manual labor. He was there alone and with a backpack, which meant he took a cab or a train and he intended to stay. He was taller than he had been three years ago. He was shivering. He wanted something.

"Basil," Sherlock said, once he'd swallowed his shock.

"Hey," Basil said brusquely, brushing past Sherlock to get into the flat. He had always spoken in an odd accent, a combination of American and English. His voice, like the rest of him, represented both his mother and father evenly. He began looking around, as though searching for something. Sherlock remained in the doorway, trying to read his son.

"I…was just about to call you," He said, unable to come up with something better to say.

"Yeah? Well, now you're off the hook," Basil dropped his backpack onto the floor. "Shut the door, will you?"

Sherlock did as he was told. He looked at the boy, and though he could assume exactly why he was there, he did not think it prudent to guess. Nor did he _want_ his suspicions to be correct.

"What are you doing here?" He was learning it was better to ask than to tell sometimes.

But it was, in fact, the wrong thing to say. His son half-laughed derisively, staring Sherlock down from across the room.

"Don't play that game with me. I show up here in the middle of the night, after going years without setting foot over this threshold. I've been traveling all day to get here. I'm tired. I'm cold. Put it together!"

He was angry at him, and it certainly wasn't the first time. Sherlock walked forward slowly, as though approaching a man with a loaded gun.

"You have a case?" Sherlock inadvertently put his hand on the client's chair that fell between him and the boy.

Basil nodded, looking at his father first with contempt, then pleading desperation.

"I have a case," He sucked in a shaky breath. "Mum's gone. She's in trouble, Sherlock."


	3. Patience

_"She's in trouble, Sherlock._ "

The boy had been referring to him by his first name since he turned twelve. There was no room for "Dad" or even a stiff "father" in the vocabulary he used for the man with which he shared a good portion of his DNA. Even Rosie, who was almost eighteen now, still affectionately called John those things. It didn't seem quite fair. Well, perhaps it was.

* * *

 _11 years ago_

 _"Dad?"_

 _Sherlock had heard him, but did not respond. He had been instant messaging a member of a highly reclusive order of alchemists who'd been accused of setting off powerful stink bombs in Underground stations all across the city. He had been so close to gaining access to their online forum…_

 _"Dad."_

 _Again, Sherlock had tuned him out._

 _"Dad!"_

 _The member had not responded to his last inquiry. He slammed the phone down on the table and turned to face the five-year old on the carpet. The boy had "Operation" laid out, the pieces all carelessly tossed around the room. Possibly the boy had been throwing them at him to get his attention._

 _"What is it, Basil?"_

 _"Will you play with me?"_

 _Sherlock had sighed just as his mobile dinged._

 _"Look, I'm in the middle of something very time-sensitive. I'll play with you later, but for now_ _ **please**_ _don't distract me," His irritation wasn't subtle._

 _"You say that every time, and then we never play!"_

 _"Well, this time I mean it. Okay?"_

 _"…Okay, Dad."_

 _An empty promise. Even the child knew that much._

* * *

He couldn't remember if he'd ever gotten to play with him that day. He'd solved the stink bomb mystery, of that he could be sure, but when it came to games with Basil his memory was unreliable. He'd had to make room for other things. Now as Basil was pacing before him like a leopard in a cage, he wished he could recall the calmer times they'd spent together. Surely there had been some.

However jarring the sight of his absentee son was in that moment, Sherlock's instincts took over and snapped him into machine-mode. Despite knowing exactly what the more parental things to do would have been—commenting on how much taller he'd gotten, offering him something to eat, even hugging him—he immediately pushed those irrelevant urges aside. After all, the boy had come searching for the detective, not the father.

"You found out your mother was missing when you returned from school, after which you immediately came here," This was plain to see from his drooping backpack, heavy with what could only be school books and absent of a change of clothes or any other sign that the boy had packed for long-term travel.

"Obviously," Basil said, his jaw tense.

"No note?"

"No." The boy was lying. Sherlock could always tell when he was lying, a trait he certainly hadn't inherited from his talented fabricator of a mother. Her, he'd had difficulty interpreting…

If the note was important, it would come out later. Sherlock roamed over to the fireplace, staring at the ashes he'd failed to remove from weeks ago. It was a poor excuse not to look his son in the eyes.

"Signs of a struggle?" He asked, his back to the boy.

"Definitely. Whoever took her must've really wanted me to know, because they left the house a wreck."

"And were there-"

"Enough with the questions!" Basil stormed forward, punching his fist into the armchair Sherlock usually occupied. "She's out there, she could be hurt or-or _worse_ and you haven't even blinked! I know at this point you've already postulated a thousand different theories, narrowed them down to about _five_ , maybe, and now you're just buying time until you've figured it out. Stop with the patronizing investigator routine and just _tell_ me how you're going to save her!"

The boy knew him well. That was always one of his strongest skills, learning people. He could look at a stranger and predict their story from one expression. He intuitively knew how minds worked. It was different from how Sherlock analyzed humans-he would examine them as objects. Basil could empathize.

Sherlock turned on his heel and gestured to the seat Basil had just abused.

"Will you sit? Please." Reluctantly, Basil plopped down. Sherlock took the chair opposite him. John's chair.

"Your mother is alive, so don't go worrying about that just yet," He began. Then, before Basil could ask, he added, "If they wanted to kill her, you would've found her dead, not missing when you got home."

Basil swallowed hard, but kept quiet.

"I know you hate questions, but as renowned as I may be I'm not a mind-reader, so you'll have to work with me," Humility had only come to Sherlock with age. He put his hands together and pressed his lips into them as he and Basil stared each other down. "Was there anything your mother said or did recently to make you think she knew she was in trouble?"

"If she knew, she didn't let on," Basil scratched the side of his nose habitually. "That's not saying much, though. You know how good she is at hiding things. There was something I found, though…"

Basil went over to his backpack and rummaged through until he pulled out a few crumpled sheets. He thrust them into Sherlock's hands and stood stiffly at his shoulder.

"Clippings," he explained. "Online articles and police reports she'd saved from seventeen years ago that had anything to do with that crime syndicate the two of you worked on dismantling. She had them pulled up on her computer."

Ah. So the boy had done some snooping around of his own before coming to Sherlock. A twinge of pride struck him. He looked over the headlines, highlighting seemingly innocuous and unconnected crimes that he later discovered had all been committed by members of the same organization. They were almost two decades old, now, cases long solved and almost forgotten by him.

"Remind me," Sherlock said quietly. "How much has your mother told you of the Red-Handed League?"

"Besides that they were really uncreative with naming things? Just that they were a collection of consulting criminals in London. She's told the story often enough, how she sought your help in bringing them down. The rest is history."

Sherlock anticipated that she hadn't told him everything. She was overly protective of the boy, and as a result he'd respected her wishes in not revealing her former involvement with the syndicate. The story that painted her only as a hero was the one her son would know.

"Anyway," Basil continued. "I was thinking, maybe _they_ had something to do with _-_ "

"Impossible. I saw to it myself that they were cleaned out of the city-with the force of the British government on my side, no less," Sherlock said surely. "The League is gone. But that doesn't mean they don't have loyalties elsewhere."

"Even so, what would they want with her after all this time? Revenge?"

"I don't know." It was the truth. Sherlock hadn't yet come to a reasonable conclusion about why someone with ill-intentions towards Basil's mother would suddenly pop up now. She was taken for something, maybe ransom, maybe information, but it certainly was not a coincidence. There was no such thing.

Basil wasn't at all happy with his honesty.

"You don't _know?_ What good are-"

A buzzing from his pocket caught his attention. Instead of finishing his reprimanding, Basil checked his phone, his breath quickening. His hand trembled as he scanned the message he'd just received. Sherlock stood up and extended his hand, into which the boy pressed the phone with a sullen look.

 _Await instructions. 11/25, 4pm._

The number was out of area, but certainly a mobile. Probably a disposable. They still made those, right? Another buzz signified a second message. A picture message. Sherlock opened it as Basil watched, wide-eyed, while trying to gauge from his father's flat expression whether he should be worried. The image was unsurprising. It was the boy's mother, duct tape on her mouth in a very cliché kidnapping fashion, and a fiery look in her dark brown eyes. There was a bruise on her forehead, but otherwise she looked more angry than tortured. It was unfortunately a close-up, so any clue as to her surroundings were hidden, other than the lighting implying she was indoors at nighttime.

Basil snatched the phone from Sherlock, staring in pure horror at the sight of his trussed up mother.

"You _were_ buying time," He said angrily. "You knew they would contact me." Sherlock gave a stiff nod. It had been a hunch, but a strong and fortunately correct one. Basil's anger turned to panic. "What…what do they expect from me? I don't know anything, what use am I? It's not like we've got money!"

"They didn't just write to you," Sherlock said. "It was a group message. Sent to you and me. They must know we're together."

To prove it, he quickly went and retrieved his phone from the bedroom. Sure enough, the same two texts appeared on the screen.

"I suspect they sent one to you, as her son, so they could show her they know how to find you. They could easily use you as blackmail to get what they want out of her. As for me…I destroyed the League. Maybe it is about revenge, although I find it highly unlikely it'd be their only motivation. In any case, why now? What's happened to bring them out of the shadows? 'Them'. Hm. We keep using plurals but it could possibly be a singular party, someone specific your mother and I caused trouble for…"

"If it's in revenge, then why didn't they take _you_ instead of her?" Basil shouted. "What, because they knew you'd come willingly? Because you can't resist a good puzzle when it shows up on your doorstep?"

"Oh, come now. Whoever they are, these people are clearly amateurs. Your mother can handle herself. Once we have their instructions, we'll find her in no time."

"What-you mean we're going to _wait_ until they contact us?" Basil was incensed. "That's two days from now!"

"We'll go up to your house in Cornwall tomorrow and survey the damage. Otherwise, yes, we wait," said Sherlock simply. "It's always better to play the game than to not. That way there's more of a chance you'll _win._ "

Basil opened his mouth, but seemed too distraught to choke out an argument. He threw up his hands, resigned, and then stuffed his phone back into his pocket.

"You saw her face, didn't you? That wasn't just regular fury. She _knew_ the person taking the photo."

"I know."

There was a strained silence between them, in which Sherlock took in the fear in the boy's eyes. It was obvious he had expected the detective to rush out the door the second the news was brought to him, to unleash hell on the villains and be back with Basil's mother inside of a few hours. That was not Sherlock, though, at least not anymore. He treaded carefully with the people he had sworn to keep safe. Never again would he fail in his oath. It had happened one too many times. Sometimes it was smarter to be patient, rather than clever and brash. Even if it was excruciating.

"You reported her missing to the police, I take it?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes."

"Good. I'll keep Scotland Yard in the loop as well, they could prove useful," Sherlock was already tapping away at his phone with one hand. "In the meantime, make yourself at home. There's still sheets on the bed in the spare room."

The room that had been John's first, then Basil's mother's, then for a time, Basil himself. Sherlock had to refer to it as the "spare room" nowadays, as it hadn't had a steady inhabitant in quite some time.

Basil said nothing, just kicked his backpack under the table. He then went to the bookcase in the corner and ran his finger over each of the bindings, looking for something in particular. Sherlock knew exactly what, but chose to play clueless.

"If you're in need of some light reading, there's a _New Scientist_ on the kitchen table," He said, not looking up from his phone.

"No, I think I'm in need of something stronger. A _lot_ stronger…" Basil muttered. He pulled out a fairly unused, hardcover copy of _The Tempest_ , and wrenched it open. Inside was not the words of The Bard, but a concealed metal flask. Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eye as the boy unscrewed the top and took a swig. His face contorted, and he looked at his father sourly from across the room.

"Water," He said, accusatory. "Old, metallic, water. When did you switch it out?"

"The day you hid it there," Sherlock shrugged. "I'm a first rate _detective_ , did you really think I wouldn't find your silly hooch stash in my own home?"

Basil rolled his eyes and stuffed the book with the flask in his backpack.

"Can you blame me? If there was ever a time I needed a drink most, it was here in this flat."

It was intended to hurt Sherlock, but as Basil picked up his things and headed for bed, all he could think about was the last time his son came to visit. It was the weekend he'd hid his Shakespeare-disguised alcohol in the bookcase, where it had sat collecting dust for years. It was the first weekend Basil's mother had called him beforehand with a request.

* * *

 _3 years ago_

 _"He was out all night with his friends, then came home drunk. This isn't the first time I've caught him drinking, either." Even through the phone Sherlock could detect her level of frantic by the faint sound of her fingers drumming mindlessly on the wall._

 _"And what do you want me to do about it? He's a teenager now, don't they typically…do that sort of thing?" Sherlock, despite being the calmer parent, had never been very good at easing her tension._

 _"He's a child, Holmes! And he's out of control, I don't know what to do anymore. He's mad at me now, thinks I'm sending him to London as a punishment," She sighed. "That's why I really need you to be there for him this weekend. See if you can't find out what's going on, or better yet put a stop to it. He respects you more than me, even if he doesn't act like it."_

 _Did he respect him or was he wary of him? Sherlock wondered._

 _"Are you hoping I'll talk to him as a father, or as an addict?"_

 _There was a pause while she considered this._

 _"Both. You are both, after all."_

 _"And you're worried he's acquired my habits."_

 _"No! Well, yes, maybe," She had almost forgotten she didn't have to lie to spare his feelings. "It can be genetically influenced…"_

 _"What_ _ **exactly**_ _am I supposed to say to him?" Sherlock was sure any nurturing conversation he tried to have would end poorly. She seemed to be thinking along the same lines._

 _"Just…protect him, will you?"_

 _"…I will. Of course I will."_

* * *

But he certainly hadn't done a good job of it. He never did get a chance to try talking to the boy. The weekend had been a disaster on a colossal scale, and it was the last time Basil had been permitted to stay at Baker Street—and the last time he'd wanted to. Now, the boy was back. It had taken a kidnapping to get him there, but there he was.

An hour later, Sherlock did something he hadn't done in a vastly long time. He crept to the spare room, and opened the door a crack, just enough to cast a bit of light onto the dark sleeping form in the bed. He could tell by the slow breathing that Basil was deep into sleep. The breath had comforted Sherlock, almost as if it were a conditioned response to the noise. When the boy was an infant, he would check at least twice a night to ensure he was still breathing, as babies were remarkably fragile and awful at keeping themselves alive. He always was, though, and Sherlock always had a moment of feeling stupid for worrying. The boy was grown at this point, perfectly capable of making it through the night on his own. Sherlock saw his backpack lying open on the floor. Careful not to make a noise, he went over to it and looked through. Textbooks and folders, all to be expected. At the bottom of the bag, there was a ripped sheet of paper that had been mushed into a ball. He unfurled it and made out three words written in messy handwriting. The hand of Basil's mother.

 _Go find Sherlock._

Clearly, this was the note Basil had wanted to keep secret, either because he felt it was unimportant to the case, or because he didn't want Sherlock to know it he hasn't sought him out of his own volition. It wasn't unimportant to Sherlock, however. In fact, it clarified a few things: One, she had been ready when the assailants came for her. And two, she expected Sherlock to know what to do.

What he knew in that moment was that he wasn't going to get much sleep that night. He restored the bag to the way he'd found it, and gently shut the door with a last look at the boy. He then went over to his computer, slumped down in front of it, and scrolled through John's blog archives until he found the one entitled _The Red-Handed League_. Sherlock sighed, and dove into re-reading a case he hoped he'd never have to think about again.


	4. Hands

He waited until the morning to text John. It was Saturday, so certainly the average working man would be sleeping later than usual, though not too late as his body would have gotten accustomed to waking up early. John hated being left even remotely out of the loop, and Sherlock hated John hating him, so it was with loyal responsibility that he sent him the following message at approximately 9:00am:

 _Lorna's been abducted. B's here. Come when you can. Please bring chips._

 _-SH_

Sherlock remained in bed for what he hoped would be a few more minutes of uninterrupted bliss. He needed to think. He also needed sleep, but that ship had sailed when he was rudely awakened at the crack of dawn by a phone call from Lestrade. Of course it had been to tell him what he already knew: the local Cornwall police were on the scene, concluded it was a forced intrusion, that the victim had not come willingly, and alerts had been distributed. Still no hint as to who was responsible.

"And the kid's with you, yeah?" Greg had asked. "They said they can send his stuff over."

"No need, we'll be down later."

"I can send some of my boys with you."

"I prefer you on the home front. Better for the Metropolitan police to stay…Metropolitan," Sherlock was still drowsy.

"You think whoever this is will come to London?"

"Undoubtedly." That was where The League had surfaced the first time. If it _was_ The League. "Well, probably. Possibly."

"God, it's bizarre when you're unsure."

"I know."

"Think I'll finally retire after this one, Sherlock."

He'd been saying that for the last thirty of Sherlock's cases, but they both knew he was nowhere nearer to the end of his rope as he had been when he first mentioned it.

Sherlock had also ignored another call from Mycroft. Again, there was no voicemail or text.

He rolled onto his side, staring at the objects on his bedside table as though they would suddenly spell out the name and coordinates of the culprit. Had he lost his touch? It'd been a question he'd been asking himself for some time now, as things began to feel slower. As _he_ began to feel slower. He hated feeling like his mind and body were lagging, while at the same time he wanted to move faster than ever before. That was the inertia that came with getting older, he supposed. There was no comfort in this world for the fate everyone suffered. Not a lot of comfort, anyway.

He reached for the last cigarette in the box lying next to his lamp. He couldn't light it now, even if he urged himself to get out of bed and over to the window. The boy would smell it. However, just placing the tip to his lips provided some psychological relief, like a pacifier for an infant. Basil had refused to relinquish his non-metaphorical one until he turned three, and even then nothing could quite subdue the tantrums the same way.

The taste of tobacco carried through somewhat. It was a disgusting habit. _She_ had told him that, on multiple occasions. Highly unattractive consequences in the long term, but even she had admitted he resembled a ganglier James Dean when he was enjoying a smoke.

Sherlock found himself scrolling through the last texts he'd sent to her. The most recent was two weeks old. None of her messages gave away any sign that she expected what happened to her. But it was like Basil said—she was excellent at hiding things. Predicting her was like trying to catch a wave. A moment she'd be one way, the next another. Nothing was certain. It was so frustrating. So infuriating. And fantastic.

She was…he hesitated to use the word "quirky". She hated that word, said it was a word used to discredit certain characteristics of women that did not conform to society's high expectations of them. Perhaps "idiosyncratic" was a better fit.

No, no. This wasn't a useful way to think about her, he needed to be thinking about her as a subject, not a person. Remembering her qualities was not going to save her. What could he deduce that would be helpful? That this was her own fault, firstly. She was a beacon for trouble. She knew exactly how to attract attention from the wrong people…and even the right. It was how they'd met, after all. Through her idiosyncraticisms.

* * *

 _17 years ago_

 _It was a horrible, ridiculous, not to mention degrading idea. But a year after meeting Eurus, Sherlock was not the same, so Mycroft had insisted. No, not insisted. Begged._

 _"Sherlock Holmes on anti-depressants?" John was faithfully shocked. "You really think getting him to take more drugs is going to help?"_

 _"SSRIs are non-addictive, Doctor Watson. Surely you know that," sneered Mycroft. "In conjunction with behavioral therapy once a week, I think it could do him a lot of good."_

 _"I'm not depressed, for God's sake!"_

 _"Don't be a child. It's not just for depression. Sometimes one's synaptic cleft is a little defective and needs the artificial boost, nothing to be ashamed of."_

 _"Thanks for your concern, but my synaptic cleft and I are doing just fine, actually. And would you look at that, here's the door! I've found it for you." Sherlock wrenched open the door with great force and leaned against it to keep it wide open._

 _"The first five sessions are already paid for. Go, get a prescription. Talk. It's what people_ do _. It'll shine some light into that murky head of yours, and keep me from worrying you'll suddenly start the next World War. A win-win."_

 _It was true that Sherlock had been off his game entirely. He had tried desperately to jump back into the swim of things, but it was like he was trapped in some unrelenting current. The fact of the matter was, he couldn't possibly process the trauma of unblocking his memories of Redbeard. Of being compromised by his sister. Of losing Mary. Objectively and strictly logically, he could understand that any normal cognitive system would be completely shaken. But he didn't_ want _to believe that he could fall prey to his emotions. It wasn't like him._

 _When Sherlock said nothing, Mycroft moved to the doorway._

 _"Face it, brother mine," He said quietly. "You've been a mess."_

 _He handed John the card before he left. Sherlock took great care to slam the door loudly after his brother walked out. John was looking at the information with a strange expression on his face._

 _"Unbelievable, marching in here like he's some sort of fairy-godmother. If anyone needs therapy, it's him," Sherlock sucked down a cold up of tea, his hand shaking ever so slightly._

 _"I think you should go," John said._

 _And so he went._

 _It was on the fifth floor of an office building, marked with a tiny sign that read "Carmichael Psychiatric Associates". The waiting room was boldly white, but they had tried to make it warmer with a small red carpet and a single large portrait of a sunflower. It was an unsuccessful attempt._

 _And there she was. Behind a thin glass screen, typing away at an old desktop. She gave him a half smile when he came in, and slid open the screen._

 _"Hiya," She said when he approached, looking very uncomfortable as he leaned down to regard her. The window was clearly not designed with tall people in mind. She didn't ask what she could do for him, just looked at him expectantly._

 _"I have a 2:00 appointment. Sherlock Holmes."_

 _She typed as he spoke, and he watched her hands. They were smooth and neatly filed. Inconsequential, but it said that the young woman didn't do a lot of rough work and she was especially clean. But busy. She didn't have time to paint her nails or moisturize regularly. Most likely a student from America working on obtaining her Master's while holding down the part-time job. Lived alone. Plain. Boring._

 _"Yup, you sure do. I'm just going to have you fill out this new patient form and you can bring it to me when you're done. She'll be with you soon." The hands gave him a clipboard and pen, and the window was shut once more._

 _The session itself had been predictably dull and fast. Sherlock had only been twice to see his former therapist after Mary. It hadn't been working fast enough for him, so he quit. He_ did _leave this one with the promise of being medicated, though, so there was that. He had been directed to check out with the receptionist before leaving, so again he approached the window in the kitschy waiting room. Again, she opened it._

 _"Yes, I was told to—" Sherlock stopped. It wasn't the same woman. He looked at her face, which he'd only glanced at previously. She had dark brown hair, a square face, and big green eyes. No, it was definitely the same woman. But her entire story had changed._

 _"You want to schedule your next appointment?" She asked, flipping down her reading glasses from her head to her nose and beginning to type once more. She didn't have reading glasses before. That wasn't odd, though, maybe she pulled them out during the session. What_ was _odd were her hands. What had once been rows of perfectly manicured nails now had evidence of severe chewing and tearing. That suggested a nervous habit. She had a scratch on her left knuckle that she couldn't possibly gotten in the time he was gone, since it was already entirely scabbed over. Probably from a cat or another small animal. That meant she didn't live alone, possibly had a roommate with a pet she didn't get along with—and there was an ink stain on her thumb, not just any ink, either, real calligraphic ink. Was she an artist now, too? Those weren't artist's hands he'd seen before. But…why?_

 _"You still with me, Mr. Holmes?" She asked calmly, the essence of professional. Clearly she was pretending there was nothing out of the ordinary. And perhaps no ordinary person would have noticed what he did. There was no other explanation; she knew who he was. She wanted to catch his eye. Again, why? She was of little importance, and Sherlock simply didn't have time for games with fangirls._

 _"Ah, yes. Same time next week?" He said, giving her a fake smile._

 _"Swell. Have a good one!" She finished typing and put her hands under the desk, returning the smile._

 _The next week it was the same story. Meaning that it was a different story. This time her nails had been painted and done by a specialist, suggesting she had either gone somewhere fancy like a wedding over the weekend or she had money to spare. Her hands themselves, however, were supremely cracked and dry meaning she washed them frequently, possibly a sign of OCD. They shook as she typed, which they hadn't before. Was she off some medication? Still, Sherlock said nothing._

 _By the third week, he was sure she was only doing this to get his attention, but he was too stubborn to ask why. It was probably a stupid little crush. She didn't seem to care that he ignored her attempts. She always was friendly and noncommittal. He wasn't sure the drugs were doing anything at all, and he hated talking about himself, yet he returned each week as scheduled. Perhaps if he kept returning, she'd mention the hands or else give up the charade._

 _The fourth week she had the hands of a mother of two and a gardener._

 _"Same time next week?" Sherlock asked her at the window. He was almost enjoying the contest of who would crack first._

 _"Hmm, 2:00 on Tuesday," She looked at her computer. "I'm afraid you'll be busy, then."_

 _"What was that?"_

 _"I'm afraid we'll be busy, then. How's Thursday?"_

 _"Er, fine."_

 _But Sherlock had not misheard her. He thought nothing of it until he received a phone call from Lestrade at 2:10 the next Tuesday._

 _"There's been a massive robbery at first bank," Greg had sighed._

 _"Robberies are not really my purview."_

 _"It's not typical, that's the thing," He took a breath. "It happened in midday, alarms went off and everything, but…no one saw anything. An entire vault was emptied under their noses, nothing caught on the security footage, no evidence of a break in besides the missing money. No witnesses either, despite the place being packed at the time it happened."_

 _"Ah. A Ghost robbery. 2:00 is an odd time for paranormal activi—" He paused as something clicked into place. 2:00 on Tuesday. He had heard that before. "I'll be down there in an hour. I need to stop off somewhere first."_

 _"Where?" asked an exasperated Lestrade._

 _"Therapy."_

 _He had caught her just as she was leaving the office building. She had both her earbuds in and was wearing a knee-length olive trenchcoat with her sweatshirt hood pulled up under it to protect her from the drizzle. He stood in front of her to block her path. She didn't seem surprised to see him. Pulling one earbud out, she grinned at him._

 _"Hey, Mr. Holmes. Don't you have a crime scene to get to? It's all over the news."_

 _"You knew."_

 _"Knew what?" She asked, unfazed._

 _"That this was going to happen. That's why you've been putting on this little show for me." It was a tiny bit clever, he supposed. The hands of a secretary were constantly in motion, drawing the eye. They were also easy to change, and she knew Sherlock would catch every contradiction she displayed. There was no significance to her choices. She was just working to keep him interested until she could safely pass along a simple hint. "You know who's behind this, but of course you couldn't just_ tell _me because that would put you in danger. You needed me to come to you."_

 _"I had to keep you coming back somehow," She pulled her hands out of her pockets and held them up. "Yeah, alright. To recap: It wasn't just luck that sent you to_ this _office, out of all the perfectly capable psychiatry practices in London. It's never luck. Just a well-placed recommendation to your brother. I know who you are, Mr. Holmes, and not just from the tabloids. So, then," She waggled her fingers ironically. "Who am I this time?"_

 _He didn't even need to look at her hands this time._

 _"A girl who needs my help."_

 _She chuckled slightly, which aggravated him._

 _"You've been busy, lately, haven't you? There's been double the crime. Nothing you haven't been able to solve, of course, no one you haven't been able to bring to justice. I do read the news, even though I hate it. But you're missing something."_

 _"What do you know?"_

 _"You expect me to be a rat in the middle of the sidewalk?"_

 _"Come to Baker Street, then. You'll be safe there."_

 _"Look, I'm not safe anywhere. Otherwise I would've come sooner. I've been buying time for ages."_

 _"This is not how I deal with people," Sherlock growled. "If you won't tell me what I want to know, odds are I'll figure it out myself and you'll be left to face your own demons. So if we're done here, I've got a couple of ghost robbers to catch."_

 _He turned on his heel and began to stalk away from her._

 _"How long did it take you to hunt down Moriarty's network?"_

 _He stopped dead in his tracks. Who the hell was this girl? He tilted back around, giving her a cold, appraising look._

 _"Two years," He answered softly._

 _"Bet you worked hard, didn't you?" She said. "You were welcomed back a hero. Completely exonerated. Literally resurrected! But what if I told you that…you missed a spot?"_

 _An hour later, after much protesting, the two were back in Sherlock's flat, with the girl looking anxiously out the window every few minutes._

 _"When Moritarty killed himself," She had explained while pacing. "He left a gaping hole in his wake. Suddenly all the members of his inner circle were vying for the crown, so to speak."_

 _"Inner circle? I brought down every one of his circles."_

 _"Like I said, you missed a spot. The ones he kept closest to him. Three of his most prized people. Three might not seem like a lot, but they have power and protection like you wouldn't believe. They hid right under your nose, never leaving London, but to your credit they were doing everything to throw you off their scent. While you were busy dismantling the network all across Europe, they lay in wait right here in the city. For a while, they realized it was better to work together than to kill each other. They still had access to Moriarty's resources, after all. Called themselves 'The Red Handed League', an organization of criminals for hire. Things went well, for a while. They got their scapegoats sent to jail, many thanks to you I might add, and profited from large and small assignments. No one was able to connect their crimes. Not even you."_

 _She took a sip from a half-empty cup of tea that happened to be on the table. Sherlock watched her, eyebrows narrowed._

 _"Blegh, that's cold. Anyway, that's all changing now. It's just a matter of time before they turn against each other. They've been slowly competing for top gun, while keeping up the facade of a partnership. Their civility won't last, and when their hell breaks loose, innocent people will suffer for it. That's what I need your help with. Bringing them down as a whole,_ before _they bring_ London _down in their war-because believe me, this 'ghost robbery' will be the least of their creative felonies."_

 _"And what motive would you have for wanting to go after them? You worked for them, did you not?" It wasn't a guess._

 _She swallowed._

 _"You can't guess? Isn't that what you do?"_

 _"I want to hear you say it. I don't know if I can trust a girl who thus far has only_ lied _about who she is."_

 _"Fair enough. Yeah. When I was younger, I was sort of a…glorified record keeper. I helped erase evidence from public view, and collected files on each 'case', as we called them. That was before he, um, bit the dust. I hoped his death was my ticket out. I even went back to school. But I never left their radar, and each of them has been asking after me ever since. I mostly want them off my back, but if it protects London, too, all the better. I don't know how or when the next one will strike."_

 _Something told Sherlock this wasn't the whole story, but he let it slide. She'd told him what he needed to know. He sighed. Even after all this time he was still being haunted by the taunting memory of Jim Moriarty. It was inescapable. But at least now he knew he wasn't the only one._

 _"I'll take your case," He said. "But I'll need your full cooperation."_

 _She hesitated._

 _"I don't know how much help I'll be if they find out I've come to you. More dead, than useful."_

 _"I'll protect you." He hadn't said those words to anyone in a while. They were frightening words, but they were the only words he knew that could comfort._

 _She didn't quite buy it._

 _"Easier said than done," She smiled. "But, I do believe we're in business." She stuck out her hand. "Lorna Gillette. Don't go spreading it around."_

 _He took it. The hand was the hand of a woman in her mid-twenties. A student of psychology and a receptionist at a psychiatry office. A loner. And someone with more secrets than she could hold._

* * *

How she had gone from an irritating client to the mother of his child was still baffling to Sherlock. It had all been so unintentional. Accidental, even. But those memories weren't going to help him now. The beginning of their quest to unhinge The League had seemed so straightforward, and so had the ending. Sherlock couldn't see another possibility for why she'd been taken; it _had_ to be the past coming back to bite her in the ass. Why couldn't the past just stay the past? Was there truly nothing new under the sun? No, definitely not. Just variations.

He heard Basil up and walking about the kitchen, opening drawers to presumably search for something clean to eat with. He wouldn't have much luck. Groaning slightly, Sherlock brought himself to his feet, letting the sheets untangle themselves from his tired body. The high pitched tones of Mrs. Hudson could be heard above Basil's low ones. There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that she was commenting on how peaky he looked, and offering to whip something up for breakfast. He'd certainly get an earful from her for not letting her know of his son's arrival sooner.

Before leaving the room, he glanced one more time at his phone. He still had the last text message from Lorna left up on his screen.

 _Maybe for Christmas. We'll see. I thought you didn't care about the Holidays, you old softy. XO_

The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. He flipped the phone into his robe pocket. It was too early to get dressed, not until he'd eaten something. Where the devil was John with his chips?

With only the slightest bit of trepidation, Sherlock finally pushed open the door to his bedroom to brave his teenager and his landlady.


	5. Family

The smell of bacon that seeped up Sherlock's nostrils as he entered the kitchen was intoxicating. It was only then that he realized how hungry he was. Basil was already at the table wolfing down whatever was on his full plate. Had he offered the boy something to eat last night? He couldn't remember. Though, frankly, he wasn't sure he'd had anything in the refrigerator. Bless Mrs. Hudson and her bacon. The woman was moving fast about the dirty kitchen, surprisingly agile for her age, and it was only when Sherlock cleared his throat that she looked over.

"Oh, Sherlock!" She cried, immediately weepy as she bustled up to him. "It's just awful, isn't it? I mean, poor Lorna…"

"Yes, yes…"

"But I'm sure she'll be alright," Mrs. Hudson added, turning back to Basil who had stopped chewing and was looking at her, thoroughly distressed. "She's a tough broad. And the police and Sherlock will find her in no time!"

"Got any more of that bacon, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked as he looked disappointedly into the empty frying pan.

"In the fridge, dear," She said. Sherlock scowled as he turned on the stove. He hated cooking for himself. Mrs. Hudson continued. "Now, I think its best that Basil stays here while you're off—"

"No," Basil spoke up. "I mean, thank you for everything, Mrs. Hudson, but I've got to help."

"But it's not safe!" She scolded. "After what happened last time, I'd think—"

"This is my mother, we're talking about. I'm not going to just sit at home," the boy cut her off. "Besides, I'm not a kid anymore."

Sherlock's jaw tensed. He'd known from the start Basil would not stand to be left out of the chase, but there was no way in hell Sherlock was going to let him get caught in the thick of it. He would let the boy return with him to the crime scene—it was highly improbable that any danger would still be lurking there—and then it was off to his grandparents for him. Of course, he couldn't tell him that just yet.

"Well, you've got that right," Mrs. Hudson said gently. "Perhaps when things calm down we can properly celebrate your birthday. Wouldn't that be nice? Sixteen's a big one."

"Birthday's don't really mean much," Basil said, stuffing his mouth with another bite. "Anniversaries are just forced excuses to feel nostalgic about a day that's long in the past. I don't need a celebration to tell me I'm different from the day I was born."

"Oh, God, you're starting to sound like Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

The boy clearly resented it, but Sherlock couldn't help smirking.

"At least let us get you a cake?" She pressed on, removing Basil's finished plate from in front of him.

The woman was relentless when it came to familial ordeals. It was compensation, of course, for her dismally failed marriage and the subsequent years of potential child-bearing wasted on being a typist for a drug-cartel. Yes, for some reason Mrs. Hudson felt the need to make up for her choice to never settle down by acting as a doting grandmother now. Sherlock had commented on all of this once, when she went overboard with a party for Rosie's first day of school, but a disapproving look from John had instantly told him it was in poor taste. He never again psycho-analyzed her excitement about family. That didn't mean it wasn't still annoying…

* * *

 _17 Years Ago_

 _"Oh, can you imagine?" Mrs. Hudson was still leaning in the doorway, her hands clasped together like she was about to burst into song. "A baby on Baker Street!"_

 _Sherlock and John had been subtly herding her out of the flat since she had barged in after overhearing the men talking. John had looked sheepish—he was the one who had used the "b" word, and it was thusly him who then had to explain the situation. However, he hadn't done a good job whatsoever._

 _"There's already a baby on Baker Street," John said. "My daughter? Rosie? You remember her, surely?"_

 _"You hardly bring her round anymore since she started that fancy daycare," pouted Mrs. Hudson. "We ought to have a shower, shouldn't we?"_

 _"For the last time, Mrs. Hudson, John misspoke. Lorna is not_ keeping _it," Sherlock rubbed his temples. How could something that didn't even exist yet cause him such a headache? "She's already met with an adoption agency."_

 _"You say that now," The landlady said with a knowing smile. "But just you wait until you lay eyes on the little thing! It changes a person in an instant. Even you, Sherlock. "_

 _"I'm not sure an aging, childless widow is at all qualified to confirm that," Sherlock rolled his eyes._

 _Mrs. Hudson looked hurt, but she brushed it off as she did all horrible things he tossed at her._

 _"I'm just saying, you'd be surprised."_

 _"And I'm just saying, good day, Mrs. Hudson. John and I have work to do."_

 _She scoffed, but turned and walked out. Sherlock sighed and collapsed back into his chair, and John at his laptop. In a moment, they heard Mrs. Hudson's voice ring out again as she ran into someone in the stairwell._

 _"I just can't believe it!" was all Sherlock could make out, accompanied by someone feigning excitement tiredly. The conversation died, replaced by the thumping of that someone continuing up the steps. He and John looked at each other, both fearing the wrath they knew they were about to face. Lorna occupied the open doorway, a bag of pastries in her hand and a scowl on her face._

 _"Alright. Which one of you cocks told Mrs. Hudson?"_

* * *

"Cake is nice," Basil said politely, standing up from the chair to help Mrs. Hudson clean up.

"That's quite done, dear," Mrs. Hudson pointed to the frying pan in front of Sherlock. Damn. He'd burned the bacon.

Letting out an annoyed snort, he tossed the charred pieces in the bin and grabbed himself an apple. Part of him suspected his landlady didn't want to cook for him because she was upset he didn't tell her about Basil last night. Or, perhaps she was just trying to give him the chance to prove he was adult enough to feed himself in front of his son. Either way, it really wasn't the right morning for her to be passive aggressive.

"You can borrow some of my clothes," Sherlock said to Basil before biting into the fruit. "Change quick, though, we don't want to miss the train." There, that was a fairly pedestrian, father-like thing to say.

"I'm fine in these, thanks." Basil said stiffly.

Sherlock didn't have to respond as he was saved in the next moment by the front door opening. He moved out of the kitchen in time to see John march in, like a man on the front lines, with Rosie hopping behind him.

"What's going on?" John said trying to keep his panic at a low-tone. "What's happened?"

"Oh, hello, John," Sherlock said with a mouthful of apple. "Did you bring chips?"

John looked livid.

"No, I didn't bring chips! It's Saturday morning, where would I buy chips at this hour?"

"He didn't really try, though," offered Rosie with a shrug.

Basil slowly walked into view out of the kitchen with Mrs. Hudson. He smiled faintly at the Watsons, and Rosie's mouth dropped at the sight of him.

"Basil!" She said in disbelief, strutting over to hug him. He was a few inches shorter than her, lessened only by the top of his beanie. "It's so good to see you!"

"Hiya, Rose," He said, muffled by her arm. Sherlock had almost forgotten that young Watson now preferred to be called the more dignified "Rose". She had outgrown her cutesy christened nickname. She must think Basil a gentleman for remembering. However, for the adults in her life it just couldn't quite stick. She was still the sweet baby that Mary had only ever referred to as "Rosie."

John approached Sherlock with his phone bared.

"You sent me this text, we came running out of our beds. We're here now. _What happened?"_ He asked impatiently.

"I thought I explained it clearly in the text. Lorna's been abducted. Basil's here. The rest should be intuitive, John."

"Okay. Alright. Well, surely it's got to be someone from The League? Someone who's resurfaced?"

"Good, very good. My thoughts exactly."

Basil broke free from his hug with Rosie to look between his father and John.

"Would you stop playing 'teacher's pet' with him?" He said, moving over to them. "Who _exactly_ would want to take my mother?"

Everyone turned to look at Sherlock expectantly.

"I don't know."

"Well, you better start knowing," John said with his hands on his hips. "This isn't just a random civilian we're talking about, Sherlock. It's Lorna."

"I know, I _know!_ " Sherlock stomped over to the window to get space from the forming crowd. "We've got a day and a half until whoever it is makes contact with us. Plenty of time to do a fair bit of digging. So, who's up for a trip to Cornwall?"

John stared blankly at him for a moment, a start contrast to the excitement his daughter beside him was trying to conceal.

"Yeah, alright. Of course I'll come with you. But, Rosie, you stay here and hold down the fort."

"What? No!"

"Come on, we've talked about this. When I say no to a case, that's the end of it," John said sternly. "You've probably got plans or something, anyway, right? It's Saturday."

"No, she hasn't," Sherlock said, earning a mutinous glare from his friend. "I checked."

"No, I haven't," Rosie echoed. "Dad, please. This is different. This is family."

She knew how to get to her old man, and that was through his tender heart. John sighed through pursed lips, but eventually gave a reluctant nod. Rosie smiled, tilting her head higher to seem more mature.

"Basil," Sherlock said quietly. "Why don't' you get your things, then you and Rosie wait for us downstairs."

Basil obliged. Mrs. Hudson went down with the kids, leaving Sherlock and John alone for a brief moment. John rolled his tongue in his cheek, unsure of what to say or just how to say it.

"Please don't undermine my parenting," He said finally.

"Sorry. You brought her here."

"You knew she'd come."

A pause.

"How much danger you think Lorna's in?" John asked, more gently this time.

"It…depends on what they want from her."

"And you and Basil?"

"According to their brief ransom text messages, we're both involved now. Could be as bait, could be to deliver something in exchange for her safe return. I can't say just yet," Sherlock spoke softly, aware that Rosie and Basil were probably trying to listen from the bottom of the stairs.

"It'll be okay." John was good at saying that like he meant it.

"Perhaps. That's why I wanted you and Rosie here. I need the boy completely out of harm's way after Cornwall, but he'd never go willingly. Not unless…"

"You need us to bring him somewhere safe?"

Sherlock jerked his head in a half-nod, half-shrug.

"You can take him up to my parents. They'd love to see you and Rosie as well, I'm sure," He said. Then, he added, "Just for a few days? He trusts you."

"What about you, then? You'll be off to handle this on your own?"

"If you remember, I was handling things like this _alone_ long before you came along. Just…not very conscientiously."

John chuckled.

"Ready for a family train ride through the country?"

"Oh, absolutely."

The trip was long and dull, redeemed only by the inconsistent laughter playing between Rosie and Basil. She lit up the boy's mood considerably, a power Sherlock could never dream of achieving. They sat across from one another, making fun of John's light snoring, playing cards, and sharing school stories. Sherlock rarely heard the boy talk as much as he did with Rosie. It was unsurprising. The two had been fond of one another from day one, after all.

* * *

 _16 Years Ago_

 _Sherlock could instantly foresee about fifteen unfortunate endings to the scenario that was about to be put in motion. The infant was so tiny, even_ he _had feared holding him, but the two-year old girl crawling around Lorna's legs as she sat on the sofa was ever so persistent._

 _"Pleaaaassee!" She was doing her false-crying, which didn't fool anybody but it still seemed to get her what she wanted._

 _John looked apologetically at Lorna who was laughing good-naturedly._

 _"Rosie, sweetheart, I really don't think it's a good idea…" John scooped the girl up in her arms. Real tears came to her eyes this time._

 _"Sherlock got to hold him, now it's my turn!" She was adamant. Sherlock resented that she used him as an example of someone with similar baby-holding skills to hers, but it seemed to convince Lorna._

 _"C'mon, let's give it a try. Rosie, you sit right here next to me, love," She patted the empty space beside her with her free arm. Already she'd mastered carrying Basil like he was an extension of her body. In a way, he was._

 _Rosie straggled out of John's grasp while he tried to sit her down properly. She sat up straight, trying to seem much older than she actually was. Lorna passed Basil off to John, and John very carefully placed the bundle in his daughter's lap. Sherlock watched from afar, agonizing about how easily Basil's neck could collapse in Rosie's gimpy arms._

 _"Two hands, Rosie," Lorna said gently, keeping one of her own hands on Basil to steady him. "There you go." Basil was being particularly calm. He looked at Rosie with wide, curious eyes, and Rosie returned the gaze._

 _"Hi," She said. "You have a booger in your nose. When you get big, I can teach you how to walk."_

* * *

Somehow the boy had learned to walk, but it wasn't through his golden haired mentor. She was always helping him with something, though, whether it was finding the last piece to a puzzle (sometimes literally), or lifting his spirits.

"…What do you think, Sherlock?" Rosie's voice dragged him back to the present.

"Hm?"

"Basil says the couple across from us is comprised of two married folks having an affair, but I say they're newly engaged. I mean, you don't see two people so lovely dovey unless it's for real. Otherwise they'd be more secretive!"

"Look at their wedding bands, they've got nothing to do with each other," Basil scoffed, leaning back. "People who are married to each other have similar rings."

"Not necessarily!"

A tired chuckle came from next to Rosie as John opened one eye.

"God, the next generation of detectives. Here I was, hoping you'd be a brain surgeon, Rosie."

"You're both wrong, anyway," Sherlock said, though he was smiling. "They're separated, most likely from a long term marriage. The divorce isn't finalized yet. They had been trying to keep up appearances for whoever they were visiting, possibly a parent, and while on the trip some of the flame rekindled."

"I was closest," Rosie bragged, ignoring Basil's eye roll.

The small house that Basil and his mother occupied was no different from the other small houses that lined the deeply suburban neighborhood. It was almost grotesque how _safe_ it all seemed, but even Sherlock had come to agree there was no better place for a child. Now the house stood out in the most ironic way: ribbons of yellow tape decorated almost every surface on the front porch, and even along the driveway and windows. Sherlock guessed the local police didn't have to tape off a crime scene very often, hence their desire to go overboard. The sight was not at all comforting, and when they exited the cab they took from the station, Basil looked instantly sick to his stomach.

John gave the boy a gentle squeeze on the shoulder, which he accepted with a brave face. Sherlock forced his hands in his pocket, believing any calming gesture from him would not be welcome.

"Once more unto whatever, dear friends," Basil muttered.

Sherlock sighed, grabbing a piece of crime tape from the mailbox and tossing it aside.

"Once more," He finished.


	6. Neverland

Police officers were scattered about the yard, looking like crows pecking absentmindedly for worms they might never find. Yet even with the place crawling with public defenders, no one took notice of the four potential trespassers walking briskly towards the crime scene until they reached the front porch. A large man with a sweaty brow stepped in front of them with his palms out, a look of disbelief on his pink face.

"Whoa, what? You can't be here," The officer started, his face getting redder with each word. He looked rather like a ripening tomato. Sherlock knew at once he was not in charge, but that he would very much like to be. Before he could open his mouth, however, Basil stepped forward.

"Actually, I _can_. I live here," He said icily. So much contempt from such a small human.

The man began anxiously rubbing the back of his neck.

"You're the son?" He glanced around as though someone would appear out of nowhere to spare him from making any decisions. "Uh, right. They told us you were coming. Detective Bartlett may want to ask you a few questions, but for now-"

"Can we go in?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"I'm not, uh, sure…"

"This is an unoccupied house from which someone was taken. It's not a _murder_ scene, despite the great lengths you've taken to dramatize the situation. An amateur display on your part, I might add. It's not as if the kidnapper is going to suddenly turn up back here-"

"What he _means_ to say," John cut in. "Is that there is no reason you can't allow the boy to enter his own home. He just wants to collect his things."

The officer looked between John and Sherlock, comprehension dawning on his face at a painfully slow pace.

"You're the detective, right? Look, we're just here to report and examine the evidence—"

"Better leave that to the professionals."

Sherlock made to move past him, but was intercepted by another figure. A woman in a brown duster, who looked very much like she belonged in a Western, stepped out onto the porch.

"I'll take it from here, Emil," She stuck out her hand, which Sherlock regrettably shook. "A pleasure, Mr. Holmes. I'm Detective Bartlett. I've heard all about you, of course. And this must be Basil." She shook the boy's hand as well. She was a very unemotional sounding woman, robotic even, as though all her human interactions were programmed. Sherlock instantly felt a hypocritical dislike of her. "I imagine this has been a hard time for you. Rest assured we're doing all we can to locate your mother."

"By hanging around the house?" Sherlock scoffed. Bartlett raised an eyebrow but ignored him, only igniting his anger.

"Basil, I wondered if you might join me in the kitchen to answer some questions. It's my understanding you were the last person to see her, and the last person to set foot in the house where she was taken," She continued.

Basil's jaw tensed. He was about to open his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off.

"My son has been through a terrible ordeal, and you want to bombard him with interviews before he's even walked through his front door? It's outrageous!" He did his best impression of an offended parent. He tried not to glance at Basil, whom he estimated was rolling his eyes.

"Of course," Bartlett conceded. "I'll give you all some time. But I must ask you not to touch anything taped off. We're still observing everything for evidence. And as I've already told Scotland Yard," She turned irritably back to Sherlock. "We don't accept unauthorized assistance as official. You're here as a relative to the victim, not a gumshoe."

"But he's-!" Rosie and John began at the same time, outraged. Basil was distracted, the word "victim" playing on his lips.

"That's alright, Watson. We'll let the detective carry on. But first, I believe we'd all like to know, what conclusions have you come to so far?"

The sweaty man took this as his cue to jump back into the conversation.

"We know she was taken by force, clear 'nough from the mess in there. Should've happened about two in the afternoon, judging by the clock that was smashed clean on the floor. Funny part is that the neighbors didn't see anyone leave the house."

"And?"

"And…" The man gulped. "That's about all we've got so far."

Sherlock gave him a tight lipped smile.

"Oh, yes. Quite a deduction you've spent _half a day_ working on."

Detective Bartlett sighed.

"If you're finished criticizing, Mr. Holmes, you're welcome to see the place yourself."

"Lead on, then."

The crew began to shuffle through the open door. The large officer seemed to want to make a better impression, so he called out after them.

"Just so you know…these sorts of things don't usually happen here!"

"I could tell." Sherlock shut the door in his face.

It was certainly plain to see that someone had gone to great lengths to disturb the order of what had been a cozy home hours ago. Sherlock himself had only been to the house four times at most, but it hadn't changed significantly over the years, save for the growing boy in the photos framed on the wall in the living room. He had always told Lorna it was both gaudy and unnecessary to display pictures of themselves. It gave the aura of false contentedness. She responded by saying she wanted her home to be like the movies; if anyone ever broke in, they would know exactly who lived there. One of the frames lay shattered on the floor, the photograph spilling out.

Basil noticed it first, and reached down to pick it up through the pieces of glass. Over his shoulder, Sherlock could make out an infant's tooth-less smile, black hair just beginning to curl.

"I said don't touch anything," Bartlett said.

"What, you think my baby picture is going to tell you who took my mum?" Basil scoffed.

"Could have DNA traces. You never know."

Sherlock caught Basil's eye and smirked, but it was not reciprocated.

The rest of the scene was similarly chilling. It was theatrical, almost. There were scratches on the hardwood floor from moving furniture, an overturned rocking-chair, a broken standing lamp, a smashed vase, and the digital clock broken and blinking 1:58pm on the ground. There were even two precise drops of blood on the small shag carpet under the flipped coffee table. They were very hard to spot, and Sherlock silently hoped Basil hadn't noticed. It was for this reason that the fuss of the local police was more justified. To the naked eye, that the victim had put up a tremendous fight. Had they no evidence Lorna was still alive, anyone would immediately suspect foul play was involved.

Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eye as Rosie gave Basil's hand a squeeze. Again, the Watsons proved to be far more reliable as caretakers than himself.

"No comment, Mr. Holmes? I thought for sure you'd have something to say by one glance." Bartlett had her arms folded, tauntingly.

"Nope," he replied cheerily, popping the 'p'. "We'll just, er, pop upstairs for a bit to Basil's room. Help him pack. Let you get on with your…crime solving."

He led the march up the tiny creaking staircase, followed by three confused cohorts. Once they got into Basil's room, John shut the door.

"What was that all about? You're being extremely…not, showy-offy today. They're idiots, they don't know what they're doing!" John said, perplexed.

"Yes, they are idiots," Sherlock looked around the room and spotted an empty backpack. He threw it at a disdainful looking Basil. "Pack," He ordered.

"Yes, sir," Basil replied sarcastically. He and Rosie began to move about the room together, and Sherlock went straight to the tall bookcase in the corner of the room. The boy had never gotten rid of a book. Thankfully.

"Will this little guy be alright alone?" Rosie pointed to a fishbowl on the dresser containing a flaming red beta.

"Oh, yeah, Meph has seen plenty of lonely days. I'll feed him extra before we go," Basil smiled at the feisty creature.

Right. Another thing Sherlock had forgotten; the boy absolutely loved sea creatures, or at least he had when he was very small. He easily recalled how he had begged his father to take him to the London Aquarium every time they came to visit. No matter the magnitude of his tantrums, Sherlock never had. He couldn't.

"Meph?" Rosie asked.

"It's short for—"

"Mephistopheles, a demon servant of the Devil in the legend of _Faust_ ," Sherlock explained, his eyes not leaving the books on the shelves.

"Yeah. That," Basil said.

"Speaking of, what have you been reading lately, Basil?" Sherlock asked the question as casually as he could, but it didn't fool Basil. He dropped his backpack on his bed.

"What are you on to, Sherlock?"

"Can't I take a genuine interest in your literary education?"

"Tell me."

There were too many books, and despite everything being in alphabetical order by title, it was taking an abnormal while to find what Sherlock was looking for. But soon, there it was. It hadn't been touched in years, but it had been well loved by small hands. One of Sherlock's more successful birthday presents. Without a word, he slid it out of its place and began flipping through the sticky pages until he found the one where the Darlings came home to find their children missing.

"Sherlock?"

* * *

 _17 Years Ago_

 _"Sherlock?"_

 _He whipped around to face Lorna, who was still standing back a few paces down the empty sidewalk. He didn't know how long he had been lost in thought, but it was enough to have paced a good few yards away from her. They had just come from the station, where yet another convict had refused to admit he knew any of the men in the pictures Lorna had shown him of The League. They were running out of both steam and hope, but something had just struck Sherlock._

 _"Say that again," He ordered, returning to her with an intense look of excitement. "All of it."_

 _"Alright… Edgar Mortlake is a beloved local newscaster. Sal Devereux works inconspicuously as a sales manager at Selfidges. And then there's Sebastian Moran, a retired colonel who teaches ethics at Westminster. That's who we're dealing with, the perfect public servants. There's no way to catch them in the act if none of them are hiding and all of them are…"_

 _"Unconnected. Yes, of course! Three different kingpins will have different skillsets, meaning they'll attract particular benefactors. Anyone might need a murder, or a heist, but everyone has a signature, a style. Guns versus knives, for example. It's a puzzle, match the crime to the corresponding orchestrator," He was almost giddy. They had been hunting down The League for two months now, but to prove their culpability as an entire unit had been near impossible. It was a three-headed monster that had taken Moriarty's place, but three heads that functioned independently. That was his folly, considering his enemy for a machine instead of the cogs with which it was made up._

 _"Damn, I've been looking at this all wrong," Lorna agreed. "We haven't been able to prove these crimes are connected because they're not. They share their resources, but not their jobs."_

 _"You said they were Moriarty's best and brightest?"_

 _"Jim didn't trust anyone, but they were as close as anyone could get to being his disciples. Especially Moran…He was the most like him. The others weren't nearly as psychopathic."_

 _"That's a good thing. It means they have weakness," Sherlock smiled._

 _"It also means they'll fight a lot harder for what they've worked for."_

 _They began walking together in synch down the wet pavement, fast paced and exhilarated._

 _"We can't just wait around for the next incident."_

 _"We won't have to. It'll be easy enough to bring one of them to us."_

 _"What good'll that do? They're just giving the orders, not carrying them out like the poor chumps they keep throwing under the bus. There's no evidence to their involvement in anything illegal that I haven't already burned myself."_

 _Yes, she was empty handed after cutting ties with them. To Sherlock, Lorna was only ever as useful as the information she could divulge, and though she was frustratingly cautious, she had proven to be better to have on hand than not. She had been at Baker Street even more often than John as of late, but for her protection or for enjoyment of their collaboration he couldn't tell. Perhaps both. In any case, she'd provided him with a fine degree of distraction, something he'd desperately needed._

 _"There's always a way to prove truth, just some roads are a bit more slippery than others," Sherlock muttered. "They're criminals for hire, remember. What's the most important part of business?"_

 _"Corporate greed?"_

 _"The customer. We trace the crime to the client to the figurehead. Sublimely simple. I predict we'll have the three of them behind bars by the end of the year."_

 _"Awfully optimistic," Lorna smirked._

 _"Just practical."_

 _They turned a corner, and Lorna did something very odd. She looped her arm through Sherlock's, which was still deep in his pocket. He didn't retract, but instead looked at her questioningly while they walked._

 _"I forgot to say thank you," She said quietly. "You've had little to go on but my word, and yet you've believed me."_

 _"I'd never believe anyone without proof. Would you like to know why I know you're not making it all up?"_

 _"I guess."_

 _He chuckled and slowed to match her pace so that her arm could remain around his. He justified this by thinking to himself that they would be more invisible in this form. Couples sneak by unnoticed on the street, but lone wolves draw suspicion._

 _"The day after I took the case, you cancelled your brother's flight to visit you."_

 _"And how did you know that?"_

 _"A confirmation email popped up on your lock screen. I merely glanced."_

 _"Snoop."_

 _"Anyway," Sherlock pressed, not about to let her snark derail his deducing process. "You knew your family would be in danger here, now that you're_ involved _again_. _You kept them at bay. This says a couple of things; that you protect the people you care about, and that you genuinely foresee danger ahead. Certainly there's been an inordinate amount of homicides, no one can deny that. London's going off the deep end, and I chose to believe your explanation. Lastly, I can believe you once worked for Moriarty because of the way you walk."_

 _"The way I walk?"_

 _"You were shot, once. In the shoulder. You keep it closer to your chin when you move, as though your body is still trying to protect it. You didn't go to war, you weren't mugged, and you weren't an officer, agent, nor stuntman. You were trapped doing highly sensitive work for criminal masterminds, and you didn't always please them. You were a pawn."_

 _For a moment, Sherlock thought he may have gone too far. He was surprised to see her smile wryly. She kept her eyes straight ahead, not even bothering to look up at him with amazement or scorn as people often did._

 _"You got all of that from a gait. Not terrible."_

 _"Well, it's really just a matter of ruling things out. I just usually happen to be right."_

 _She laughed fully this time, and tightened their linked arms._

 _"Oh, the cleverness of you."_

 _"Carroll?"_

 _"Barrie, actually," She was pleased to know something he didn't._

 _"Ah. I always get those confused."_

 _"How do you manage that? One's Wonderland, the other Neverland."_

 _"You seem personally offended," He was smiling now too._

 _"I am."_

 _"I'll do better in the future."_

* * *

There was a picture that accompanied the text, and Sherlock remembered it surprisingly well. When Peter Pan took the children off to Neverland, he'd left the nursery a mess. The artist in this version had depicted a particularly dark scene, one with overturned furniture and broken toys lying in wait for Mr. and Mrs. Darling. When Sherlock had first read the book to Basil, Lorna had commented on what a gruesome image it was for a children's book. If she ever came home and found her furniture lying like that, she would have a heart attack. Kidnappers don't have to leave chaos, she'd complained jokingly. It was bad enough the children were missing, but the parents would also have a lot of cleaning to do.

What a drama queen.

Sherlock shut the book and put it back on the shelf, aware that three sets of eyes were boring into his back. He turned to face them.

"Are you packed?" He asked Basil. "Good, let's get going."

"What? We just got here, they still have to question me."

"Waste of time."

"Sherlock," John said. "You don't even want to look downstairs? Maybe there was a note from the kidnapper."

"Impossible. The kidnapper was never here."

Everyone stared at him blankly.

"What do you mean?" Basil started angrily. "My house is a wreck! There is _blood_ on my carpet!"

Damn. He had seen the blood.

"Yes, it was a very convincing display. But your mother left here entirely of her own free will."

"But-!"

"I recognize the way she arranged the room. I bet she thought she was being so clever…It's the same as in the Darling's nursery. Minus the blood, I assume that was for the police."

He pulled out the book again and showed the page to Basil.

"Admittedly she didn't have the same furniture to work with, but she tried to recreate the destruction as best she could. The clock, the chair. Besides, it's painfully obvious from the moment you see it. No one would knock over that many items in one fight. No, she set it up herself, possibly to keep the police busy or aware of her disappearance. Perhaps to keep you from thinking any less of her, Basil."

"What do you mean?" He could see his son believed him, but for some reason did not want to.

"She left to _meet_ whoever took her. There may have been blackmail involved, but she was not forcibly removed. She knew the person she was going to meet, and left us a cookie crumb trail."

"How do you mean?" Asked Rosie.

"He knows exactly where she went," Basil murmured. "Just from my stupid children's book and a pile of furniture."

Sherlock wrenched open the door and started off down the stairs. When he realized no one was following, he poked his head back up. Everyone was still frozen in place, their minds taking much slower to process and jump into action.

"Is no one up for a trip to Kensington Gardens?"

John hurried after him first, and as they stumbled back down the stairs, Sherlock could distinctly hear Rosie whisper to Basil, "You ever wish we had normal parents?"


	7. Genes

They were trapped in the train station for a despicably long time. Their train had been delayed, which did nothing to help the anxious mood that had befallen the ensemble. After an hour of listening to Basil and Rosie argue over what to get at the vending machine, Sherlock was grateful when his phone rang.

"Lestrade," He muttered to John and swept away to take the call.

"There's nothing. The place has been scoured, there's absolutely no sign that she was even there," said the harried voice on the other line.

"It's a public park, I find it extremely hard to believe you found literally _nothing_ in the vicinity."

"Nothing but litter. Crushed cigs, a plastic bag from Selfidge's, a half-eaten apple. Damn, you'd think they'd clean up better what with all the children around…"

Sherlock rubbed his temples, as though doing so would keep the man on point.

"The bag. Anything in it?"

"Just a receipt. Think it means something? Hang on," Rustling. Sherlock was mildly impressed that Lestrade had gone himself. He usually had lackeys for that thing. Could it be the inspector had less to do nowadays? "It's from two days ago. Odd no one picked it up. It's for a couple of-"

"I don't care what it's for, the date is all that matters. November twenty-second, ring any bells?"

"Should it?"

"Never mind, I'll call if I need you."

"Now wait a minute, Sherlock—"

But he had already hung up. The man would know better than to try calling back. Yes, there was a missing person and she was definitely somewhere in London, but as always there was a far better chance of him finding her alone than with the rag-tag team of cops hanging off his arm. He sighed and pulled up the search engine on his phone, scrolling until he found the article he was looking for. The headline read, "Suicide Bomber Takes out Third Floor of Oxford Street Selfridges: Motives Still Unknown" It was dated November seventh, sixteen years ago. It perfectly matched one of the five clippings Lorna had saved for her son to discover.

Great. The last place in the world he wanted to be was a department store on a Saturday. But that was where her ridiculous trail led, and so he would follow. He felt like Hansel and Gretel, but with a less clear and more irritating path.

He needed a smoke. With a careless look over his shoulder to ensure the others were out of sight, he plucked a cigarette and lighter from his pocket and allowed himself a few moments of ease.

"Those things'll kill you, you know."

Basil had somehow snuck up behind him. Not intentionally, Sherlock was sure, but he had been caught at a very rare moment when the details of his surroundings had become unimportant. Basil had always had a habit of approaching him from behind. It was a test, to see if his father would turn and look at him. This time, he did.

"Says the sixteen-year old alcoholic," Sherlock retorted, his eyebrows raised.

"Bad genes, I guess," Basil scoffed.

Bad genes indeed.

* * *

 _17 Years Ago_

 _Sherlock was in pain. The worst physical pain imaginable, more horrible than being shot and more relentless than having your eyes gouged out. Those were short-term and centralized. This was never-ending and surged through every nerve in his body. He was too weak to even stand, so he could only reach his sweaty palms out the window into the cool night air for at least an ounce of relief._

 _The most maddening part was that he could make it all end in an instant. All it would take was a call to Billy, since he had stupidly thrown out all of his own supplies in his moral endeavor. One call, one needle…he could be free. He would be himself again, instead of this deprived, barren shell._

 _He had already ransacked his medicine cabinet. Nothing but the untouched bottles of SSRIs lining the shelves. Nothing remotely opioid, not even cough medicine. If he got hurt, a hospital would hook him right up… Was it Janine who had once pointed that out? No, no. John would never forgive him. Self-destruction was only beneficial if it was for a case. He was better than that, wasn't he? It made no sense, nothing made sense. Why now, why did he choose now? It had to have been a good reason._

 _He had never explicitly promised to John that he would stop. After his last withdrawal in Culverton's death hospital, John assumed that had been the last of it. That perhaps he'd "learned his lesson." Alas. He'd been doing alright with measurements, enough to keep him satisfied and others unaware. Sherlock tried to remember what led him to make this ridiculous decision, but came up blank. It was too soon. He wanted. He needed. Anything to dull the agony._

 _Maybe it would relent soon. Yet, just as he thought this he felt a fresh stabbing pang, and just barely made it to the waste bin before violently vomiting._

 _There was someone standing in the door that he hadn't even heard open. His eyes moved up from the sick to the blurry shape of a woman in the darkness. The light from the hall pinched his eyes, but whoever it was shut the door immediately. She sighed disapprovingly._

 _"Mary?" Sherlock knew it was wrong when the name slipped from his lips._

 _It was Lorna who bent down next to him, her face suddenly becoming clearer like a rack focus in a film._

 _"Sorry, Holmes," She whispered. "Just me. Jesus, why am I not surprised to find you like this?"_

 _"I'm fine…a little…sick."_

 _"With what, the bubonic plague? Unfortunately, I know a cold-turkey cutter when I see one," She went into the kitchen, leaving him along on the floor with the bin. "When was the last time you shot up? And how much?"_

 _"Forty-two hours ago. Half a gram," He wasn't sure why he was telling her, but perhaps it was because he wasn't yet convinced he wasn't hallucinating. Maybe he just didn't have the energy to ignore her._

 _She returned with a glass of water which she promptly shoved in his face._

 _"Drink. You're probably dehydrated as shit right now, and I still need you alive."_

 _He begrudgingly accepted, drank, and threw up once more._

 _"Nice."_

 _He forced himself to look at Lorna, still bent at his side. She didn't look scared, or even angry. Just…patient. God, he hated that._

 _"Why…why are you…?"_

 _"I've got your next case. Thought I'd come before the police did, they don't even know about it yet. Part of me wishes I'd come sooner. Maybe if you'd had a nice murder to get high on you wouldn't have fallen off the wagon…"_

 _"The wagon metaphor is for drinking…"_

 _"I know, I know. I didn't know you were so lingo savvy."_

 _"Did you say murder?"_

 _His words were coming back to him. He realized he hadn't spoken to anyone in days._

 _"It'll still be there when you're right again."_

 _"I said I'm_ fine. _I've done this before."_

 _"I don't doubt it."_

 _More vomiting. Could this possibly be the worst one yet? Maybe they were all the worst one yet. However, he didn't seem to remember there ever being this much retching. He wasn't quite sure how it happened but he found himself stumbling across the floor and into bed._

 _"Look," Lorna said, setting down the glass of water and a Tupperware bucket on his nightstand. "You're in for a rough night. I'd say you ought to see this out in a facility where they can make sure you don't choke on your upchuck or dry up…but I suspect you'd fight me tooth and nail, yeah?"_

 _"I suspect so."_

 _"Then you'll owe me big time for making sure you don't die tonight."_

 _Sherlock could remember few things about the rest of that night. Her leaving to bring back some electrolyte filled drink. Her telling him that her brother had been a junkie and that was why she prided her expertise. Him explaining why he'd chosen that week to suddenly go off it entirely. Only because she'd asked, did he remember._

 _"Rosie," he whispered in the dark .It must have been incredibly late, or very early. She was tired, too, and had taken to lying on opposite side of the bed in wait for his next bout of puking. But it had subsided and things felt quieter and calm. "I was thinking that I would like to see more of her. I'm not around much when I'm high."_

 _"Noble."_

 _"No. Selfish. I was afraid she would like her other godparents more than me."_

 _"Nobility is always selfish in some way. Don't beat yourself up."_

 _The last thing he heard was her yawn before slipping into a deep, distressing sleep._

 _When he awoke the next morning feeling beyond worse for wear, he was startled for a moment by the sound form of a human woman in his bed. Well, not_ in _his bed. On it. Looking very uncomfortable, curled up against his unoccupied pillow, her sneakers still on. He was about to cover her with a blanket, but remembered something that led him to a different decision._

 _"Murder!" He said, rolling her awake. "You said murder, last night."_

 _"Mmf, get off," Lorna whined. She opened one eye to look at him. "You have serious barf breath."_

 _"Lorna!"_

 _"Fine. You'll hear about it soon enough. Mel Hightower, famed art appraiser and dealer, found shot in his hotel bathroom last night. Nothing on the security footage," She yawned dramatically. "And all doors locked. Classic, right?"_

 _"Simple enough. And you know about this because it has something to do with the league? You want me to find out who did it?"_

 _"Yes and no. I know who did it. I just need your help getting the proof."_

 _"Who, then?"_

 _A dark look suddenly crossed her drowsy face. She looked away, trying to hide any sign that her mood had altered._

 _"Sebastian Moran. Sharpest damn shooter in Europe, and Moriarty's former right-hand man."_

* * *

Basil stuffed his hands into his pockets, debating about whether or not to say what was on his mind. Sherlock allowed him his inner quarrel.

"So it's okay to smoke in front of me, but not John and Rosie? You care what they think of you more than your own kid?" He tried to say it somewhat playfully, but the accusation was clear.

The detective looked at his son with genuine surprise before sinking back into a sigh.

"You were born disillusioned by me. With the Watsons, sometimes I can at least pretend to be a better man."

"Ah. Right. I never saw you as a hero, so it's okay not to act like one around me. Is that it? You really think I never looked up to you?"

Now Sherlock was entirely thrown off. He sputtered on the toxins he'd just inhaled.

"What?" He coughed. It was not like Basil, as far as he knew, to attempt to achieve catharsis in the middle of a crowded station. This seemed to dawn on the boy as well.

"Nothing," He rolled his eyes. "What did you find out about the Peter Pan statue?"

"Your mother was there."

"And?"

"And I know where else she was. In fact, you do, too."

"Quit the games," Basil rounded on Sherlock, standing face to face. He was still much shorter than his father. "I don't have time for that shit."

"For some reason, your mother has revisited every single crime scene orchestrated by The Red Handed League the year you were born," He said nonchalantly. He showed the headline to Basil. "At least that's what I presume."

"So Selfridge's…that hotel with the Hightower murder. The V&A where the armed robbery happened. That old news station. And Westminster College. Sherlock, that's five different places! She could be at any one of them!"

"Most likely she's at none."

"Then why are we wasting our time?"

"Because if I'm right, and I usually am, each one will—"

"What, have a clue?" Basil was trying to keep his voice down, but his anger rose steadily. "She could be dead by the time you find all your stupid _clues_! This isn't Scooby Doo."

"The captor is going to contact us tomorrow—"

"I'm not going to wait around for another picture of her being tortured!"

"I know you're impatient," Sherlock said calmly. "But it's…for the best." He tried to put a hand on the boy's shoulder, like he'd seen John do, but it was immediately shrugged off.

The return home was solemn, disrupted only by a few more ignored phone calls from Mycroft. John suggested he might be able to help, but Sherlock was not in the mood for entertaining such a far-fetched idea.

Basil was entirely immersed in his phone. Bored, Rosie craned her neck to peek at his screen.

"Who're you texting so much? A secret lover?" She teased. Basil immediately shoved his phone back in his pocket.

"Yes, because I have so many of those," He wrinkled his nose and folded his arms.

"I keep telling you, you're a total catch," Rosie giggled.

"What makes someone a catch?" asked John.

"Jean jackets," explained Rosie.

"Popularity," said Basil.

"Brooding sensitivity," Rosie added.

John laughed and turned to Sherlock.

"Did you know your son's a catch? He doesn't get it from your side."

That was obvious. It wasn't a conversation Sherlock could relate to, having only learned what attracts people by mere observation than by personal experience. Attraction wasn't his forte, but that hadn't stopped it from evading his life completely.

* * *

 _17 Years Ago_

 _He'd just had to know, hadn't he? He couldn't have thought of any better method than seduction to pry the information he needed from her lying hands? A nice blackmail, perhaps? Anything would have been better, in retrospect. It had worked so well with Janine. He hadn't intended for it to go so far this time. He never wanted it to. Never imagined. Still, he had needed her phone unsupervised, and she never let it out of her sight while in his presence. It had reminded him, with an odd twinge, of The Woman and her insurance. But Lorna was not as cunning as she, nor as desperate. That had led him to the following conclusion: the best way to gain access was to ensure she spent the night again. He could have drugged her, couldn't he? Yes, that would have been much cleaner. Yet she liked him, and he could tell. It was so easy for him to take advantage of the weakness that was romantic attraction, something that was foreign to him but not so much that he couldn't pretend._

 _When they were alone in the flat that night he could plan it all out very precisely. They shared one drink, whilst going over the files she'd recovered from The League's database. He would brush against her, see if that at all elevated her heart-rate. If so, he was in. He couldn't be the first one to make the move, however, she would know something was up. No,_ she _would have to seduce_ him _. She wouldn't be quick about it, which was tormenting but fair. She would place her phone on the table next to them, keeping it close but freeing her hands. Then she would put one hand on her hip like she always does, but the other on his, which was shaking just slightly from the cold. He had "forgotten" his gloves while they were outside. Seeing others suffering from low body temperature aroused people more frequently than heated bodies, a surprising fact he'd come across._

 _He didn't expect her to smirk before she kissed him. But she did. He also didn't expect, when they had landed in the bedroom, for any escalation. But she drew him in and he didn't end it. Why hadn't he ended it? Curiosity, perhaps. Inertia, more likely._

 _When he was sure she was asleep, Sherlock crept out into the living room. He'd discovered her passcode easy enough. He saw what he needed. He returned to his bedroom to gloat. Something had stopped him from waking her, though. He wasn't sure what. He climbed back under the sheets with her instead, and decided it could wait until morning._

 _The sound of him getting dressed must have woken her, and she sat up in bed looking sheepish._

 _"Hi." She said._

 _"Morning."_

 _"So, did you get what you needed out of that?"_

 _"Sorry?"_

 _"Did you find out what you wanted from my phone?"_

 _Sherlock rolled his eyes as he buttoned the top of his blue shirt._

 _"You knew and you still let me?"_

 _"Yeah, I mean, I had fun."_

 _"Interesting. It never ceases to amaze me," He ruffled his hair and glanced out the window. It was early._

 _"What? Sex?"_

 _"What people are willing to do for it."_

 _"Ah, so you're not really a fan of it, are you?"_

 _"Nope. Not my thing, generally. Last night was a bit of an anomaly," He tried not to look at her, invested in looping his belt, but he could tell she was smiling._

 _"Could've fooled me."_

 _"Really?"_

 _"Nope."_

 _This made him chuckle, and he allowed his gaze to turn over to the girl in the bed. She had her legs pulled up to her chin, like she was trying to occupy less space._

 _"I know you've been in contact with Sebastian Moran. I know you've been lying."_

 _The grin glided from her face._

 _"So that's what this was about. What confirmed your theory?"_

 _"You did, right now. And, of course, your emails."_

 _"I've shown you all the emails you asked to see—"_

 _"But not from your school account, which I was able to hack onto easiest via your mobile. I didn't realize, before. You told me just enough to keep me satisfied, just enough to seem honest. Victimized. Yet you haven't quite picked a side. You're waiting to see how this plays out, keep the law and them happy with you until one of them prevails."_

 _"It's not like that."_

 _"You received a teaching assistant credit from Westminster in his class. His academic email doesn't include his name but it doesn't take a super sleuth to figure out it was him you've been endlessly corresponding with over the past few months. Oh, wait, I suppose it does," He became menacing in a flash. "You've been meeting up with him in secret. When you told me you had cut ties, who were you protecting in that lie? Yourself? Or them?"_

 _Lorna opened her mouth briefly, then closed it._

 _"How much do you really know?" Sherlock stepped forward, towering over her._

 _"A lot more than I can tell you."_

 _And so it was with deep regret that two months later Sherlock waited for her in the flat with a small, rectangular, bright-colored box on the table in front of him. Their arrangement had continued, as she was more useful than ever, having kept direct contact with Moriarty's inner ring. Her loyalties were constantly questionable, which made her a flawed ally but a fine double agent. She was in his flat every other day with something new, so he expected her prompt arrival at four that afternoon._

 _When she walked in the door she stared at the package like it was a loaded gun. Her eyes went wide, and she took two steps back as though Sherlock had somehow slapped her from across the room. He, however, sat calmly in his chair, hands pressed together in patient anticipation._

 _"What the shit is that?" She pointed at the box, moving closer to the door from which she'd entered to show she was prepared to make a quick escape. Sherlock didn't even bother to roll his eyes at her immaturity._

 _"Have you suddenly forgotten how to read?"_

 _"Whoa, you're in no position to mock me!" She warned. "I'm not the one suddenly making…stupid accusations!"_

 _"Good comeback."_

 _They stared each other down. He knew she would be the first to crack._

 _"Holmes, give me a break," She was almost pleading in her childish whine. "C'mon. I'm not."_

 _"Shall I go over the evidence?"_

 _"Spare me, I'm begging you."_

 _Sherlock sighed and stood up. He took the box and shoved it in her unwilling hands._

 _"Just take it," He said, careful to keep his voice from quavering._

 _She looked back at him, glossy eyed. She was not normally tearful, but Sherlock suspected this might be one of the rare times she slipped up._

 _"And then what?"_

 _"Then…I don't know." It was honest, which he hoped was what she needed to hear._

 _Lorna shook her head and stalked off to the bathroom, clutching the pregnancy test so hard the cardboard crumpled. She slammed the door hard, as though blaming Sherlock would make it all go away. He didn't need to see the results. He knew he was right. For the first time, however, he wasn't at all pleased about it._

* * *

The sound of a phone ringing brought him back to the cramped reality of the train. Basil's ringtone was an electric guitar rendition of _Swan Lake_ and it was piercing. He looked down at the number and frowned. It clicked for Sherlock at once.

"No, don't-!" He warned, but Basil had already accepted the call and placed the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" He said, ignoring Sherlock's annoyed grunts. "Thanks. No. He's got nothing. Yeah, he's right here, want to talk?"

Sherlock mouthed "No" in the most overdone fashion he could manage. Basil pressed the phone at him with a stone cold glare, and he relented with a boisterous sigh.

" _What?"_

"It seems like you may need my help," Mycroft's voice was boastful, even with the bad reception.

"What possibly gave you that impression?"

"Don't be so stubborn, Sherlock. Family needs to stick together in times of crisis, correct?"

"Not enjoying retirement, are we?" Sherlock asked with a mean chuckle.

"Retirement is for teachers and CEOs. I prefer to think of myself as…'inactive'," Mycroft said silkily.

"Still no use to me."

"I happen to be staying with our dear old parents for the weekend. Bring the boy up here, where he'll be safe, and meet with me. I have something to give you that may help lead you to Lorna."

He could say very little about his relationship with his brother, but the man still knew him well.

"I'm doing perfectly fine on my own, thanks."

"If you had answered my calls a day ago it's possible you could have prevented this from happening. At the beginning of the week I received a parcel from her containing video logs from The League's database, the ones she claimed to have erased."

They must have been the security footage and testimonials Lorna had collected in her time as the team's hacker and secretary. She had destroyed all of them following the conviction of Edgar Mortlake, the final remaining member. Or so she had said. Why had she sent them to Mycroft and not him?

"We're on our way to Selfridge's now," Sherlock murmured. "I'm sure she left something there for me to find."

"I'll send a car to meet you after. You can bring your Watsons if you wish."

"Hang on, what are you doing at our parents' house anyway?"

There was a pause.

"I'm helping them go through Eurus' documents and her old things. They need the emotional support, and since you're not around…" Mycroft said.

"Right, I bet you're a huge support," said Sherlock sarcastically. "See you when we see you."

It had been over a year since Eurus died in her bleak prison. They said she'd gotten sick, but Sherlock had a strong feeling she just couldn't bear to live anymore, trapped in the cage of her insanity and the glass facility her own brother had locked her in. Sherlock hadn't seen her much in her last few years. He tried not to dwell on it. He couldn't.

"What'd he say?" Basil asked once Sherlock had hung up the phone.

"We're going to meet him at your grandparents' house."

"What about Selfridges?" Rosie asked.

"We're going there, too. It's all part of the plan."

Sherlock leaned back in his seat and ignored the concerned look he felt John bore into him.

"You're just grasping at straws, aren't you," Basil said reproachfully.

"Until I find the right one."


	8. Explosive

Sherlock didn't bother to look back through the swarming crowd of shoppers and tourists to ensure that the others were on his tail. He just assumed they would keep up, since once his pace was set, it never slowed.

He silently begged that his instincts had not made the entire journey a waste of time. All this second guessing, questioning himself at every turn…it hadn't always been that way. Had the years of mistakes welled up inside him and substituted surety with self-doubt? No, it was not the right moment to be wondering all that. Lorna depended on his focus. For her sake, and the boy's, he could not become emotionally compromised. Even when he saw it.

He imagined the memorial looked much the same as it had when it was erected sixteen years ago. It was on the second floor by a set of escalators, established against a patch of white wall between two colorful clothing stores. It consisted of five photographs surrounded by a mass of fake flowers, burned out candles, and banners. Sherlock didn't recognize the faces, but he knew them as the ones he couldn't save. Some of the ones. What a tacky display. It hardly seemed like a decent legacy to have left behind.

"Alright, there?" John's voice dragged his peripheral senses back. There was obnoxious pop music echoing off the high ceilings, and a baby was wailing not too far off. John, Basil, and Rosie stood behind him, all equally out of breath from catching up to him.

"Perfectly," Sherlock replied. His eyes inadvertently turned to his son, who was studying the shrine with uncomfortable curiosity. Surely, he didn't know what happened that night. That was the only night Sherlock truly feared he would never meet him.

* * *

 _16 Years Ago_

 _November 22nd_

 _They had figured it out. Well,_ he _had figured it out, but he could hear Lorna's voice in his head begging for a smidge of credit. After months of fruitless efforts to prove culpability of any one of the three Red-Handed Leaguers, Sal Devereux had finally shown his true colors. The part-time clerk, part-time master of pyrotechnics had gotten sloppier in performing his "jobs", ever since Sherlock began hunting down his patrons one by one. They were piling up in prison while Devereux was scrambling to maintain power. His crimes had been far easier to track than Moriarty's other two followers, in part because his were far more…explosive._

 _Bombs were his specialty. Sherlock had been unwillingly reminded of the first game Moriarty played with him, where people were used as dynamite fodder, and wondered if those had been crafted by Devereux himself. His most recent detonation took out half a bank, but because he and Lorna had been able to find and question the responsible clientele first, they were able to warn the bank and no one was harmed. Sal was nowhere to be found. Predicting his next steps became effortless._

 _As Sherlock sat in the cab beside John, wishing the driver would go faster, he had the sense that this was it. He was sure Devereux had rigged the device in Selfridge's himself, because this time he wasn't acting as the businessman. He was acting of his own foolish desire for revenge against the company that had sacked him (which, admittedly, was Sherlock's fault) not a month prior. Because this was an act of passion, Sherlock knew Devereux was beat. They would have him, this time. Idiocy was always provable._

 _But first, lives needed to be saved._

 _The crowd in front of the department store was so large they had to be let out a block away. The street was barricaded, thanks so Scotland Yard's competency. The building was still intact when Sherlock and John approached. The bomb had yet to go off._

 _"Everyone's evacuated?" He heard John ask one of the officers closest. The answer was cut off by the ringing of Sherlock's phone. With an annoyed sigh, his placed it against his ear, simultaneously scanning the horde of exiting shoppers for a sign of the bomber._

 _"Looks like your call worked," He told Lorna on the other end. "They're setting up a perimeter and evacuation's nearly complete. How much time is left? They want to send in the diffusers."_

 _"We were wrong, Holmes," His least favorite words. Her voice sounded shaky and distant. "The bomb's not on a timer. Don't let anyone in."_

 _"So, Devereux is going to give the order. Everyone's already out, what's the point of that? All that trouble just to char up his least favorite retail monopoly." He tried to work out what she was saying, but all he could think about was that the man was somewhere nearby, his finger on the button._

 _"Not everyone's out. He's got five hostages."_

 _"He-?" An awful, stomach-plummeting thought came over him. "Lorna," he said quietly, turning away from John and the officers. "How do you know? Where are you?"_

 _"I'm sorry," she said. "Holmes, I'm really sorry. I had it all wrong. Sal's planning on going down with the ship, and I need to talk to him. He'll have information I need, and I can't let him die before I get it."_

 _"Of what use is that information going to be if you blow up?"_

 _John's ears perked up and he moved closer to listen to the conversation._

 _"Guess I'll have to live, won't I?" She said, and he could hear the smile in her voice before she hung up._

 _"No! For God's sake, that_ imbecile!" _Sherlock clenched his phone so hard he hoped it cracked._

 _"Lorna didn't stay home, did she?" John asked solemnly. Sherlock didn't respond. He began pushing his way through the crowd until he found Lestrade by a patient firetruck._

 _"Devereux is a suicide bomber," He said, shooting back down to a placid manner. "He is inside the building with five hostages."_

 _"But we searched-!" Greg protested._

 _"He knew that place like the back of his hand, I don't doubt he had a few undetectable places in mind. Don't send in your men."_

 _"What does he want in exchange for the hostages?"_

 _Sherlock looked down at his feet. He disliked looking at Lestrade when he was emotional._

 _"If he wanted something, he would have asked. This is revenge, not a bargain." Sherlock could picture five blank faces, each one an employee or someone who had wronged the deranged Sal in some way. No, there was no hope for them. Except Lorna._

 _"What, so there's nothing we can do?" John's voice rose. "Sherlock, you've dealt with lunatics before, surely there's something we missed, some way to -_

 _"Reason with him? Highly unlikely. If anyone new sets foot in there, he could blow. On the bright side, either way, we've got our man."_

 _"Bright side? Are you serious?_ She _is in there right now, and you're trying to be positive?"_

 _"What else would you expect of me, John," Sherlock turned away from his friend. "Typically I deal in solving crimes, not preventing them."_

 _He tried to walk away fast. He didn't know how much time he had. Not knowing was the worst. He predicted he had only given himself about a minute head start before John figured out what he was up to. That would hopefully be enough time to keep him from following him inside the building. As usual, though, John Watson surprised him. He felt the man grab his arm and yank him backwards just as he reached the side entrance to the building._

 _"Was it not_ you _who just said the whole place could blow if someone sets foot in there?" John said panting. "Surely there's a better way to save her, save all of them, let's just take a moment and_ think—"

 _It felt like the explosion happened in slow motion. Orange flames could be seen lapping out of the large windows along half of the third floor. The sounds of the boom and the shards of glass and debris hitting the pavement reached them much later. The impact knocked both him and John off their feet, but fortunately they were not close enough to be burned. Sherlock's ears rang, but he forced himself to stand as soon as he had fallen. Too late._

 _Dead. Dead, she was dead. Sherlock's mind processed it before his body did. His fault, surely. No, her own damn fault. She was supposed to be nowhere near there. She had been told to stay put. But now, she and her unborn child lay broken and disfigured somewhere inside the fiery store. Just when he had begun to wonder what his son might look like. It hardly seemed fair._

 _Sound returned slowly. John was repeating his name over and over again, as though the man were performing CPR with his words. Sherlock was coming back to life. She was not._

 _The firetrucks were already spraying the fire, and men in flame retardant suits went bursting in to check for survivors. There wouldn't be. Sherlock knew Devereux would have kept his hostages in close range. Numbly, he and John walked back to the police barrier._

 _"That's the last we've heard of Mr. Devereux, I suppose," Lestrade sighed, exhausted. "What a nightmare."_

 _For once, Sherlock could not respond. He turned with a jolt and sped off to find an empty patch of street on which to hail a cab. John faithfully followed._

 _"Sherlock…" He started._

 _"I don't want to talk, John. I don't need to talk. I need to sleep."_

 _"Sherlock," John said again._

 _"Don't."_

 _"No, Sherlock, look!"_

 _He spun around at John's command in time to see a young woman hurrying towards them. She was breathing heavily, her hair matted with sweat, with soot streaks patching her face and neck. Otherwise, she was completely unharmed. Her smile was forlorn, but she smiled at them nonetheless._

 _"My God," John said, walking forward to meet her. "You're alive!"_

 _"Yeah, bit of a surprise for me, too, actually," Lorna panted out. "Look, I'm sorry I had to go behind your backs," she spoke more to Sherlock, who was silently watching her with tight lips. "But I knew you would fight me on it."_

 _"Damn right," John replied. "You're supposed to be on bedrest! This is about as far from taking care of yourself as one can go." But he seemed happy to see her. Yes, there had been a multitude of complications in Lorna's pregnancy. The most recent had kept her housebound per the doctor's request for the past week. Sherlock knew she'd been stir-crazy, but not flat out mad._

 _"I had to," She explained. "Once I realized Sal was going to kill himself, I had to come myself. I knew he would talk to me, give me what I wanted. Dying men are so willing to talk. But I wasn't sure he'd let me…live."_

 _"Why did he?" asked John._

 _"I promised to use the information he gave to take down the rest of the League. He hates them more than he hates me, or even Selfridge's."_

 _"Hang on, what information did you know he would have? And if you thought you might die, how did you expect to get it to us?" John was struggling to keep up._

 _She grinned._

 _"Check your emails. There's a list of Edgar Mortlake's most recent clients, forwarded right from the League's database, thanks to the late Sal Devereux. I wouldn't have left you boys with nothing to go on. The hostages, did they make it out alright?"_

 _"We, er, didn't see anyone leave the building before the bomb went off," John said softly. Her face fell, and Sherlock knew she would hold herself responsible for their deaths before she even opened her mouth._

 _"He told me he would let them go," was her weak excuse._

 _They shared a grave moment stillness. John tried to meet eyes with Sherlock, but the man kept his mouth shut._

 _"Devereux is gone. That's one down, two to go," John mused._

 _There was another long pause in which everyone expected Sherlock to finally speak up._

 _"Time to go home," he said finally. Glancing briefly at Lorna, he saw that she looked hurt. Perhaps she thought he'd be overjoyed at her return, or at least displayed some relief. He didn't want to give her that satisfaction. She didn't deserve it._

 _The cab home was equally dismal and quiet. Sherlock and Lorna bid John farewell, and entered 221 B Baker St. in ominous silence. She'd moved into the spare room over a month ago. It only seemed right, since she was there every day. And since her recent health complications…it felt the noble thing to do. Then, of course, there was the "keep your enemies closer" creed to live by. Right now, he was feeling like she was as much an enemy as any he'd ever had._

 _The flat was dark, and neither turned on the light. Sherlock went right to the table and began shuffling around for his old pack of cigarettes. He hadn't smoked in years, but now was as good as time as any to start up again. Lorna stood with her back against the door, hesitating to enter fully._

 _"Please say something."_

 _"Have you got a light?"_

 _She shook her head, and folded her hands in front of her chest. In another breath, she slid off her coat and hung it up. Even through the large sweater, Sherlock could easily make out where she showed. It would be soon. A week or two, perhaps._

 _"Is this you being angry with me?" Lorna asked slowly._

 _"Not at all. Though next time, if you can manage to swallow your ego, do as I say and stay out of the way."_

 _"My ego?" Sher stalked forward to stand in front of him. He had struck a nerve. "Without me you would've had_ nothing _from this case! Just six dead bodies and no idea where to start next."_

 _"I would have figured something out. I always do."_

 _She laughed derisively._

 _"So this is jealousy?" She taunted. "For once, I did better than you and you can't handle that."_

 _"Better?" He repeated softly, cocking his head to one side. "You were almost killed."_

 _"But I wasn't."_

 _"By sheer, dumb, luck, Lorna."_

 _She took a step closer to him._

 _"There's no such thing as luck."_

 _She was too close. He'd had enough. Sherlock slammed his fist on the table, causing her to jump._

 _"Why do you insist on being stupid?!" He shouted. "It's maddening. You think you're oh-so clever. You trick others into believing they can trust you. Then you pull a stunt like this."_

 _Her nose wrinkled but she dared not show weakness by stepping back._

 _"You don't understand," She said stiffly. "The League is my mess to clean up._ You're _helping_ me, _not the other way around."_

 _"You were supposed to be on bedrest."_

 _"I had to do something!"_

 _"And I had to spend ten minutes tonight thinking you were dead!_

 _Lorna's face softened._

 _"Were you scared?"_

 _Sherlock looked away, but he did not lie._

 _"Yes."_

 _She cautiously wrapped her arms around his waist in a non-verbal apology. He let her, but did not return the embrace._

* * *

It was the first time Sherlock had ever visited the memorial himself. Lorna took flowers to it now and then, out of pure guilt. If her face had been hung up with the others, would he have come to see it? Probably not.

Sal himself had not earned a place among the remembered. A harsh revenge.

Sherlock scanned the decorations and trinkets left by those paying their respects over the years, until he found the odd thing out. A yellowed envelope with no name. It was shoved behind one of the frames, only its corner sticking out. He tugged on it, knocking over a few flowers in the process.

"Can we be a bit more careful about defacing the memorial?" John said anxiously. "There are a couple of security guards eyeing us."

"What is it?" Basil stepped in to look over his father's shoulder.

Sherlock opened the old envelope. Inside was as he expected: nothing.

"It's empty," Rosie said, disappointed.

"That's good," Sherlock said simply. "It means she was here."

"So, what was inside?" Basil persisted.

"Information," the detective carelessly tossed the envelope back into the pile of ornaments. "Your mother loves to make people's lives harder. I understand, now," He added before Basil could defend his mum's honor. "She lied to me. She never deleted the files from the Leagues database. No, in fact, she took great care to hide them, keeping them for insurance, no doubt. She placed individual records on five separate flash drives and hid one at each crime scene. Someone found out, forced her to go collect each one, and bring them in. On what threat, I can't be sure yet."

"But _who?_ " Basil raised his voice. "Sherlock, if she's already given this person everything, there's no reason they won't just kill her!"

"There _is_ a reason. We're still waiting on instructions, remember? Whoever this is, they need something from us. That gives us the upper hand. In fact, we have two upper hands," Sherlock was already walking back towards the escalators as he spoke, sure the car Mycroft had sent would be waiting outside. "They were under the impression that the files Lorna hid were the only ones. Meanwhile, my dear brother is in possession of the copies."


	9. Playing House

Though their arrival had been anticipated, the shock and joy that spread across his parent's faces when they found their youngest son and his troupe on their doorstep was far from disingenuous. Sherlock did his best to tune out the sudden mass of cheerful welcomes and greetings, but he accidentally caught his mother's eye over the hug she had thrown around Basil. Had she always been that old?

After too long, they were finally ushered inside, but the train of sappiness did not end.

"My God, look how big you've both gotten!" Mrs. Holmes marveled at the height of the teenagers.

"Thank you for my present, grandma and grandpa," Basil mumbled with a smile. He, too, could not help but feel awkward in loving family situations and Sherlock noticed he was trying to shy against the wall as much as possible. "I, er, meant to call, but…"

"Of course!" Mr. Holmes clapped his grandson on the shoulder. "It was actually Mykey himself who picked it out."

"Thanks," Basil added, his head turned over the crowd. "It's really cool." Sherlock swiveled to see Mycroft leaning against the dining room table in the next room. He looked harried, and not at all his standard self without his suit and tie. He'd lost the bit of esteem with which he used to so boldly carry himself.

"I'm thrilled you enjoyed it," the man said levelly.

Sherlock shot him an inquisitive look.

"A camera drone," Mycroft replied with sneering pride. His brother unsuccessfully tried not to roll his eyes. Never did he think Mycroft Holmes would resort to being a show-off uncle. Possibly, age had made him soft, in the skull and heart. More likely, though, it was out of competition and not kindness that the present had been so grand. He would always seize an opportunity to one-up his little brother.

"You all must be starving," Sherlock's father declared at once. "Dinner shall be on the table in five! Go on, wash up and make yourselves at home!"

Rosie and Basil scurried off, undoubtedly to try and discuss the facts of the case on their own without their parents' watchful eyes. The children were reliable for one thing: they always thought they knew better, even better than Sherlock sometimes. At least it would keep them occupied.

"Can I help with anything?" John asked kindly, following the senior Holmes into the kitchen. Before he could escape it, Sherlock found himself alone with a looming Mycroft.

"Been a while," Sherlock said emptily.

"Are we doing pleasantries now?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "My, perhaps we truly have entered the golden years."

"The files?"

"After dinner," Mycroft said silkily. "Do try to be civil for them, will you?"

"Playing the role of the 'good son' has gone to your head, hasn't it, brother?" scoffed Sherlock. "This is all very out of character for you, dropping everything to attend to dear old mum and dad. Has your crippling guilt humanized you?"

"What did I just say about civility?"

But he wasn't finished.

"It must have been a real treat to first discover their daughter was gone, only to then receive a pitiful attempt at a consolation by the man who caused her death."

He did not know where his rage was coming from. But Mycroft did. His brother did not take the bait, merely gave a thin-lipped grimace and went to the cupboard to pull out a set of napkins.

"Blame me for Eurus. Blame me for Lorna. You forget, I was in the profession of taking blame all my life. I'm rather good at it."

"Yet you're still seeking absolution."

Mycroft sighed and tossed half of the napkins to Sherlock to fold.

"No, Sherlock. I'm here because I'm needed here, and for once in my life that's enough justification. And all that you are going to get. Consider yourself lucky I was available at all."

Before he could retort, the kitchen door burst open and yet another family dinner was under way. Basil sat at the far end of the table, farthest away from Sherlock. He watched from the corner of his eye as his son dutifully answered questions about his life, school, and general wellbeing. He could see right through the charade he was putting on. Similar to him, the boy would never feel quite at home in his home.

* * *

 _16 Years Ago_

 _He had arrived early. Too early, in fact. It was the day after tragedy had struck Selfridges that Sherlock received a call from Mrs. Hudson, alerting him that Lorna had prematurely gone into labor. That woman couldn't go twenty-four hours without knocking on death's door. Against the odds, however, Lorna prevailed yet again. As did her son, a small, pink, and oddly quiet infant._

 _It was because of his precocious timing that Basil was just over a month when Christmas rolled around. After ten tearful phone calls from his mother, and the confirmation that John and Rosie would be spending the holidays with Harriet, Sherlock conceded to a family visit. Lorna put on a brave face and the three ventured to the countryside._

 _The last time he had set foot over their threshold was after Mary had shot him. It had not nearly been long enough._

 _Predictably, his parents went absolutely gaga over the baby, practically fighting each other for a turn to hold the soft little thing in their arms._

 _"He's perfect. Truly," Mrs. Holmes cooed. His parents' over-the-top enthusiasm was well understood. Surely, neither of them had expected grandchildren in their wildest dreams. "Mycroft, why don't you take him for a bit? I want to see if I can't find that old photo album…"_

 _Mycroft looked like that last thing he wanted to do was get within ten feet of the fidgeting child._

 _"I've got him," Sherlock reached out to save his brother from enduring the criticism that would follow his rejection. It was Christmas, after all. And he was equally repulsed by the idea of viewing Mycroft attempt to hold a baby._

 _As Basil returned to his grasp, Lorna entered the living room in which they had all crowded._

 _"Hey, Holmes?"_

 _Four heads looked up at her, and she bit down a laugh._

 _"Er, the tall one," She amended, pointing to Sherlock. "Did we bring Basil's warmer blanket?"_

 _"In the car." Yes, they had rented one for the occasion, with a car-seat and all. How ordinary._

 _Lorna started towards her coat and the door, but she was not the only one seeking an escape._

 _"I'll accompany you," Mycroft murmured._

 _Sherlock suspected at once that his brother was not just looking for an opportunity to smoke unobtrusively. He could see their figures from the veiled window, neither one getting too close to the other, but definitely exchanging discrete dialogue. His father interrupted his spying by creeping over to get yet another close view of his grandson._

 _"Oh, he sure does like you," Mr. Holmes said in a stage whisper. "Look at how calm he is."_

 _Indeed, Basil had immediately nodded off once back in familiar arms._

 _"He doesn't_ like _me," Sherlock said distractedly, still peering out the window. "He doesn't know me. I just happen to be one of two people on whom his survival has relied on thus far. You confuse dependency with intimacy."_

 _He didn't have to watch his father to know he was shaking his head._

 _"Logic may be your thing, son," smiled Mr. Holmes. "But I do know a thing or two about being a parent. And that little boy is infatuated."_

 _When Lorna and Mycroft returned, they acted as though nothing more had been discussed than the weather. Later, Sherlock purposefully ran into his brother in the empty hall space outside the bathroom. Pretending to ignore him, Sherlock turned the other way and was met with the expected reaction: Mycroft stepped in front of him, cutting him off._

 _"This can't last, Sherlock," He said wearily. Sherlock blinked._

 _"I know it can't."_

 _"Really? Then why do I get the feeling you're enjoying your happy family façade far more than you let on?"_

 _"They're safe with me."_

 _"They're not," Mycroft sighed. "Sebastian Moran is still not only at large, but in power. Until charges are brought against him, he will continue his reign of terror, and I'm almost certain that includes the execution of the girl who spilled his secrets. He no longer needs her. He's the only one of the League left. Even you can't stop a loaded gun, dragon slayer."_

 _"And you believe you have an alternative?"_

 _"I do. Lorna is considering testifying against Edgar Mortlake when his case comes to trial. I'm sure her information will put him away for good. In exchange, she and her son will be placed under the witness protection programme, and removed from London. Safe, sound, and easy."_

 _Sherlock chuckled snidely._

 _"You just want to expose her to bring down Mortlake."_

 _"Of course I do. Isn't that what this has all been about?"_

 _They stared tauntingly at each other until Sherlock had to look away._

 _"She'll be at a larger risk if she testifies," He muttered._

 _"Hence the protection offered. Far better than you can give her at Baker Street."_

 _From two rooms over, they could hear Basil begin to wail pitifully. He was rarely noisy, but when he was, it was somewhat of a relief to Sherlock, who otherwise had no idea what was going on in the infant's mind. Mycroft looked at his brother and a teasing smile spread across his face._

 _"Oh, God, Sherlock," He laughed cruelly. "This isn't really about their security, is it? You don't want them to_ go _. You want to keep playing house and pretend everything is fine, hm? You could go with them, you know. Drop the whole detective career and live out in the countryside, perhaps grow a garden—"_

 _"Shut up!"_

 _Sherlock pushed his brother against the wall with enough force to wipe the grin from his face. He briefly felt like a child again, unable to think up a quick enough retaliation for his brother's bullying. Mycroft took a breath and looked at Sherlock with what he possibly thought was a gentle expression._

 _"Think about what's best for everyone. It's time to grow up," Mycroft said softly._

 _"I thought this was growing up," Sherlock was breathing heavily. "Having children. Protecting them. It's what everyone else does."_

 _This time when Mycroft smiled, it was sad._

 _"Not people like us, Sherlock."_

* * *

After dinner, Sherlock's parents settled down for an early bedtime, and the rest of them took over the den. It was filled with boxes of paperwork, and he had to resist the urge to look into them, knowing at least one contained Eurus' documents and photos. Basil never did meet his aunt, but on one of Sherlock's visits, he mentioned him in passing. He remembered how Eurus' doe-like face broadened with both jealousy, disgust, and elation all at once at the thought of a nephew. On the whole, it was better they never met.

Mycroft took a small parcel from the desk drawer and tipped its contents onto the surface beside the old desktop computer. Six flash drives. Sherlock realized something off, then and there, but kept his mouth shut. Basil could not know too much, and he had insisted on being present for this big reveal.

They spent the next few hours poring over each file uploaded on the dusty screen. Artillery sales. Client names. Photographs. Security Camera footage. "Case" summaries that included detailed plots of each criminal transaction with client signatures that could easily have been used for later blackmail.

"Couldn't she have just emailed this stuff to you?" Rosie said after pulling the fourth flash drive from the port.

"And risk it being hacked?" Basil was getting more excited by the minute, while Rosie was fading fast.

Each drive was packed to the brim with the skeletons of what the League had been. All, except one.

The final was a blank.

"Maybe she sent it by mistake?" John suggested. "There were only five places she hid the originals, but she sent them in six parts to Mycroft."

Ah, John had noticed. Even though he called it a "mistake", Sherlock could see the man knew full well it couldn't have been an accident. Or, perhaps he was projecting his own thoughts onto his friend.

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock brushed it off. "We'll know more in the morning, after our assailant has gotten in touch. Rosie looks as though she's about to pass out, perhaps it's time for bed."

With much protesting, the children were scooted out of the room. John, Sherlock, and Mycroft were left with the files.

"Well?" Mycroft said dully. "She made it fairly obvious, did she not?"

"Quite."

John cleared his throat to indicate he needed an explanation. Sherlock launched in.

"Five originals, five copies, one blank. Too big a mistake to make, sending an extra flash drive with nothing on it. No, there were six original flash drives, but only five of them had copies made. Lorna was forced to collect each file by this so-called 'kidnapper', who was under the impression that the ones she hid were _the only ones_. She only brought five out of the six, hoping that would buy her time. When this person realized the set was incomplete, they contacted me. Which means, I must know where the last one is. And it doesn't have a back-up."

There was a pause.

"Alright, so, where is it?" John asked.

"No idea."

"Great."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It doesn't matter if I know or not, because _they_ think I know. All I have to do is…show up when called."

"What about Basil? How is he involved?"

"Initially, the kidnapper thought he may also know of the drive's whereabouts. I suspect Lorna will have convinced them otherwise, but to keep tabs on him would be the best way to get Lorna and I to cooperate. Which is why you're going to make sure he doesn't leave this house."

"He won't listen to me," John sighed.

"No, but when he wakes up in the morning I'll be gone and he'll have no idea where I went. His only option will be to stay."

"Hang on," John put up his hand. "I don't understand why she sent all this to Mycroft and not you in the first place."

Sherlock and Mycroft looked at each other.

"It was a return," Mycroft said quietly. "I made the copies. She was sending them back for safekeeping."

"Why?' John asked, though he knew the answer. "Because she thinks she's going to die?"

No one spoke.

Later, Sherlock snuck into the room his son was sleeping in with ease. He slipped the boy's phone into his pocket, assuring that he wouldn't see any text messages that would arrive during the night. Before he left the room, he looked back once like he always did. Basil was sleeping restlessly. Unlike him, the boy cared so much…

* * *

 _16 1/2 Years Ago_

 _Sherlock watched through the two way mirror as Lorna sat uncomfortably in the metal chair across from Mycroft. The questioning had been going on for an hour at that point, and it was getting nowhere. She was stubborn was ever._

 _"Ms. Gillette," Mycroft said, exasperated. "If you work with me, we can help you"_

 _"If I work with you, I put a target on my head. If I work with you, I get tossed in jail. Those are my options at this point, are they not?"_

 _"And if you don't, the same fates may befall you."_

 _She stared back at him, doing the annoying thing she often did where she sealed her lips by tucking them into her mouth. Mycroft sighed and rubbed his forehead._

 _"I think we'll take a break, then."_

 _Lorna was left alone in the tiny room, refusing to even glance sideways at the mirror behind which she knew Sherlock resided. Mycroft came to stand behind him._

 _"You didn't tell me she was pregnant," He said._

 _"You didn't ask. She told you?"_

 _"In so many words. She was trying too desperately to hide it."_

 _Whether Lorna wanted him to know in an attempt to gain sympathy, or for another reason, was unclear. However, she certainly knew little about the elder Holmes brother if she was expecting a shred of pity._

 _Before Mycroft could continue on the subject, Sherlock interjected._

 _"Why bring her in now?"_

 _"I didn't realize, before, the extent of her usefulness." It was difficult for Mycroft to admit when he'd been in error._

 _"But you knew of her before?"_

 _"Of course. I've kept my eye on anyone even remotely related to Moriarty ever since his demise."_

 _"Why not bring in Moran, Mortlake, or Devereux? They're the ones you're after."_

 _"Insufficient means. They're spotless, but only because_ she _carries all their spots. She just won't tell me a damn thing."_

 _Sherlock tried not to smile. He'd spent months upon months trying to extract what he needed to know from the girl, and here his brother thought he could accomplish it in a mere afternoon._

 _"And probably won't any time soon. You can't hold her here if she doesn't have the evidence."_

 _"You should have told me what she knew sooner, Sherlock." Mycroft turned the blame to his brother._

 _"If you knew where she was, why didn't you act?"_

 _"The same reason we didn't bring in Moriarty's brother for questioning. We were under every impression he had no involvement. I only assumed the same went for his sister."_

 _It took a lot to throw Sherlock off guard, but he couldn't recover in time to hide his confusion._

 _"…Sister?"_

 _Mycroft feigned bewilderment, which was replaced in a moment by the sheer pleasure of surprising his little brother._

 _"You had no idea? Lorna Gillette, half-sister of Jim Moriarty. I suppose she couldn't keep away from the family business."_

 _Sherlock fell silent, staring at the young woman running her nails along the metal table in front of her. For the first time, she looked up through the mirror. He knew she couldn't see him, but was sure she was trying to._

 _"By the way," Mycroft continued casually. "Do you happen to know who the father is?"_


	10. Irrational

The text came in at exactly midnight: _1146 Clyde St. London. Bring the file, or she dies. Don't call the police, or she dies._

An ineloquent series of directions that did nothing to impress or beleaguer the detective. If Lorna wasn't involved, he probably would've considered the case well-below his paygrade. But she was, and so he persisted, longing for the moment when it was all over and he could settle in for a bath.

Sherlock's hand was on the front door when he heard the creaking down the stairs. From the weight and the care taken to descend each step quietly, he knew exactly who it was before he turned around. Another miscalculation to stall his proceedings.

"You were asleep," Sherlock muttered in a rush defense.

"I had a bad dream," whispered Basil angrily. He came face to face with his father. "I dreamt some prick stole my phone."

There was no point in denying it. Sighing, the man plucked the mobile out of his coat pocket and tossed it to Basil. He peered through his messages with anxious fervor.

"I didn't get anything."

The text, thankfully, was sent to Sherlock and Sherlock alone. Removing the phone had been precautionary. The assailant knew, at this point, that the boy did not know the whereabouts of the final file. Thus, any incoming messages would only be attempts to use Basil for blackmail, should Lorna give any trouble.

"Nope. Looks like you're off the case. Get back to bed." Sherlock snatched the phone back from the boy and dropped in into his pocket once more.

Basil thrust his coat from the hook by the door and slid into it ferociously.

"Not a chance. Give me my phone back," He said.

Sherlock stood firmly planted between his son and the door.

"It doesn't take a mastermind to figure out how to track a phone. Please, I'm trying to keep you…safe."

It was like the word had sparked a fire inside Basil. Suddenly, the boy didn't care about waking everyone in the house up. He yelled at his father with more volume than Sherlock could have ever imagined escaping from the typically stoic teenager.

"SAFE? _Now_ you're worried about me being safe? No, you don't get to pick and choose when to care about me, Sherlock. When there was a gun to my head, you didn't give a shit, but now, suddenly, you're a good father? Who are you trying to show off for, this time?"

A good father.

* * *

 _3 years ago_

 _Basil was far braver than Sherlock had been expecting. He didn't utter a single noise while the barrel of the gun shoved more forcefully into his temple._

 _He was supposed to wait in the cab, like he'd been told. He wasn't even supposed to have made it to the cab from the flat, but he'd insisted on joining Sherlock on the finale of the case of the "Skeleton Key", as John had christened it. Basil had been bored, or lonely, or plainly foolish, and one or more of those characteristics had gotten him into an immediate hostage situation._

 _The stand-off was simple. Sherlock had the key, a key to the Lindberg family tomb that had been preserved and unopened fifty years. Inside contained not only their accumulated fortune, but a collection of artillery to envy. Across from him was the groundskeeper, who had spent his whole life searching for the fabled key, and had stolen it from a second-rate museum. In the groundskeeper's clutches, stood Basil. When Sherlock had snatched the key, the villain had grabbed his son and pulled the gun._

 _"Hand it over," the man coughed out. "Hand it over, and I won't shoot."_

 _It took Sherlock about a second to gather the full story. This man had grown up in poverty. He had two children, both boys. One was sick. He needed money. He was desperate. But he was not evil. The gun itself gave him away._

 _Sherlock took a step closer._

 _"You won't shoot him," he said simply. "Whether I hand it over or not. You're not a murderer, and you're not about to break that track record for a silly key."_

 _Basil went wide eyed as he stared at his father. The man's hands trembled, but the gun cocked._

 _"I've come too far to walk away without it."_

 _"Oh, believe me, you won't be leaving. Scotland Yard is on its way as we speak."_

 _The gun was thrust harder against Basil, and for once the boy let out a soft whimper._

 _"Then you better think fast," the man bellowed. "I swear, I'll do it! You'd bet your own son's life?"_

 _"I don't need to bet. You won't hurt him."_

 _He was being taunting and he knew it. If Mrs. Hudson had been there she would've whispered a small, "Norbury" in his ear. Still, this was one case he was not about to fail. Sherlock had grown so tired of unfinished plots and unanswered questions._

 _"Dad…."_

 _His eyes darted down to his son's, which were watery. He hadn't been called that in quite some time._

 _"Please," Basil whispered._

 _Sherlock said nothing. Sirens were heard in the distance, and the groundskeeper looked around frantically._

 _"I…I warned you!" He choked out. He pulled the trigger._

 _A loud bang. Basil was dropped to the ground as the man stumbled backwards, hoping the shock would've caused Sherlock to drop the antiquity. It did not. Instead, he stuffed the key into his pocket, and knelt down next to his boy._

 _"I knew you didn't have it in you," Sherlock said to the shivering man. Police cars pulled up around them, but Sherlock only had eyes for his son. Basil was panting, remaining on all fours against the concrete. He looked like he was going to be sick. There was no blood, no wound of any kind. Sherlock tried to pull the numb boy into a seated position, and gently wrapped his arm around his shoulders._

 _"Basil, it's alright," He said quietly. "You're alright. The gun was a blank. I knew it was a blank. You were never in any danger."_

 _"Don't touch me!' Basil wrenched away._

 _"Sherlock!" John's voice rang out over the sudden commotion. He was sliding out of one of the cars and ran over to them. "Basil, Jesus, are you hurt?"_

 _"N-no."_

 _"He's possibly in shock. Did anyone bring one of those blanket things?" Sherlock had never seen his child in so much distress. He tried in desperation to understand where it was coming from._

 _"I'm not in shock!" Basil protested. "I…John, can you please just take me back?"_

 _"Yeah, of course," John eyed Sherlock for more of an explanation, but he didn't receive any._

 _Sherlock remained behind to consult in the arrest. That would give Basil time to cool off. He'd hoped everything would've returned to normal by the time he arrived back at the flat, but Basil didn't say two words to him. He allowed Mrs. Hudson to fuss over him and give him tea, but kept silent whenever Sherlock was even within earshot._

 _"You let him down," John explained after he'd taken Sherlock aside in the bedroom. "You have to put your child first, always. I didn't think I needed to tell you that."_

 _"I knew from the first minute that it was a blank fire, I can spot them from a mile away. If I thought there was even the slightest chance he could've been harmed—"_

 _"Yes, but he didn't know any of that! He was left thinking his father was about to let him die!"_

 _Oh. John could see what Sherlock could not. In his pride, he'd forgotten that Basil was a child. A child ought to believe someone always has their back. Especially a parent._

 _"I've done some damage, haven't I," He admitted slowly._

 _"Yeah, you have. Lorna's on her way to pick him up. I'd stay in here until then, because I don't think he wants to see you."_

 _Hours passed, and Sherlock sat alone in his dark room that had become his self-proclaimed prison. When Basil was small and unruly, he'd seen Lorna place him in "time out" to think about the consequences of his actions. This must have been his version of that._

 _At last, he heard the flat door open. Voices he did not care to listen in on rippled about in the next room, and Sherlock lay back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling._

 _"Wait downstairs with Mrs. Hudson, I won't be a minute," He heard Lorna tell their son. Much to his chagrin, she opened the bedroom door without knocking and the light from the next room illuminated Sherlock's dark figure. He didn't look at her._

 _"If you're here to scold me, John's already taken care of that," He grumbled._

 _She said nothing for a moment, just came in and sat at the end of the bed by his feet._

 _"He won't forgive me for this, will he," Sherlock proposed, sitting up to take her in. She was exhausted, but trying to look alert._

 _"Not for a good long while."_

* * *

Sherlock remained silent. Even with what little he understood of Basil, he could tell this was a lecture that should not be countered. When the boy realized he wasn't going to respond, it only fueled his anger.

"I know what I am to you," Basil steadied his voice, but it was dripping with danger. "An inconvenience. The great Sherlock Holmes was burdened with a son that doesn't come close to living up to the name. Well, guess what? It doesn't change the fact that you're stuck with me. You don't have to pretend otherwise. I know you never wanted me."

* * *

 _16 ¾ years ago_

 _It was rare that Sherlock was waiting for Lorna when she returned home. He should have been at St. Bart's, examining the latest victim of brutality with the potential of being connected to Moran's rapidly-growing empire. Instead, he held back, and when she walked through the door he emerged from the kitchen and cornered her as casually as he could._

 _"Tea?" He offered. "I just put the kettle on."_

 _Lorna did not fall for his quaint display of hospitality. She tossed her bag on the table and slid off her coat, eyeing him suspiciously._

 _"You never make tea. You trying to poison me?"_

 _"I still need you alive," He reminded her, smirking._

 _"Drug me?"_

 _"An interrogation is a bit of a rude reply to my offer. I take it you don't want any."_

 _"What do you want, Holmes?"_

 _"You look tired, is all."_

 _"I'm fine, thanks."_

 _She narrowed her eyes and moved to sit on the couch, clearly hoping the conversation had ended. Sherlock persisted, trying not to accuse her all at once, but subtly and aptly._

 _"The Smiths were asking after you, today," He said nonchalantly, closing his laptop. He spotted her shoulders stiffen out of the corner of his eye._

 _"Oh?" She muttered. "I'll call them back tomorrow."_

 _"They didn't call. They came by the flat. Wanted to talk in person."_

 _"Did they?" She stood up with some difficulty and carefully tried to make her exit._

 _"They were concerned they said or did something to make you terminate your adoption agreement."_

 _There it was. Lorna looked like a deer caught in the headlights. She turned to look at Sherlock with a composition of fear and guilt._

 _"I was going to tell you—" She began, stepping toward him._

 _"No, you weren't."_

 _Lorna sucked in a breath and leaned against the wall._

 _"The Smiths are a nice family. Incessantly average. I didn't want them getting mixed up with me or a child related to me."_

 _"A touching sentiment, but a lie. Try again."_

 _"I changed my mind, they aren't a good fit."_

 _"No."_

 _Sherlock moved closer. Though she was feet away, she shrank back like he had pinned her. Lorna kept her gaze firmly at his shoes and when she spoke her mouth hardly moved._

 _"I want to keep it."_

 _When the truth came out, though Sherlock had known it all along, he didn't let his lack of surprise derail his attack._

 _"I know," He said softly. "I predicted you'd end in this resolve. I pity the couples whose time you wasted with adoption interviews…"_

 _"Look, I didn't even know it was what I wanted until maybe a week ago. When did you solidify your estimation?" She cut in._

 _"I suspected ever since you bottled out of the abortion. After that, it was only a matter of time."_

 _"I loathe when you act like you know me better than I know myself," she grumbled. "Even when you do."_

 _Silence. Sherlock sighed dramatically._

 _"Would you like me to explain why this is a terrible idea, or do you already know?"_

 _"Holmes," Lorna said pleadingly. "Just try to understand. My life has been reckless and messy. All that's finally ending, and when it does, can you really blame me for wanting some conventionality? A year ago I wouldn't have ever seen myself as a mother, but now…a kid may just be my next chapter."_

 _"Sorry, but what is there to understand?" Sherlock spat. "You are still who you are, a baby is not going to change that. If anything it'll complicate it. You'll have something else to protect, to worry about."_

 _"The League's almost finished. I'll be able to move on."_

 _"You never 'move on'!" He was thinking of Mary as his composure burst. Family just wasn't an option for those who'd chosen a treacherous path. "And what of me?" He asked at last. "How do I fit into this fantasy of yours?"_

 _She bit her lip and met his eyes for the first time._

 _"You…you don't have to. When it's born, I'll move out. When we've finished our business, you won't have to see me or it again."_

 _Sherlock leaned back on his heels._

 _"Good," He murmured, turning around to fetch his teacup._

 _"Unless-"_

 _"You will not domesticate me, Lorna!" He would not be twisted into feeling he wanted the life she dully craved. He would not be fooled into thinking it was his place to pretend he could be anything remotely resembling a father figure. His life had no space for family._

 _Lorna swallowed and balled her hands into fists. A shiver of a laugh escaped from her trembling lips._

 _"Wouldn't dream of it."_

 _Part of him wished she would._

* * *

"You're right," Sherlock said as his son's breathing became steadier. "I never wanted to be a father."

"Jeez, I just said that, you don't have to rub it in!"

"What I _mean_ is," Sherlock stepped over to him, holding up a hand to cease his volcanic interruption. "I never wanted to be a father because the thought that I would be one never occurred to me. I did not love easily, nor was I easily _loved_. I knew I would never marry. I knew I would never raise a family. That was the life I'd accepted, so when you came along it threw me for a loop."

Basil pulled his coat tighter around him but listened quietly with narrowed brows.

"You were something I didn't foresee. I didn't want you because…I didn't know I wanted you. You duped me. That makes you special," Sherlock concluded. The boy looked like he didn't fully believe it, but he didn't fight.

"You know why I never took you to the aquarium when you were young," said Sherlock.

"Yeah," Basil whispered. "Rosie's mum."

"Rationally speaking, the odds of having anything remotely similar happen to you on a day trip there were astronomically slim," Sherlock tightened his scarf. "Yet, it wasn't for bad memories that I did not want to return with you. It was the very irrational fear that I wouldn't be able to protect you there, like I couldn't with her. You are one of very few people who make me irrational."

They stood in front of the door, in an awkward pause that went on for just the right amount of time.

"That's all well and good, Sherlock," Basil sighed, zipping up his coat all the way. "But I'm coming with you."

He pushed past his father and opened the door. Before he stepped out into the cold night, he stopped.

"Don't worry, though," He murmured. "This time, I won't hold it against you if you can't protect me."

The boy had made his choice. All Sherlock could do was what he always did. His best.


	11. Kin

The trip back into London was painful for a number of reason: Firstly, the constant back-and-forth travel had made both men fully irritable. Second, they had to steal Mr. and Mrs. Holmes' compact car to make the journey, and Sherlock was an awful driver. Third, Basil would not stop asking questions.

"Devereux is dead, but Moran and Mortlake are only behind bars. What if they found out about the files and wanted them destroyed?"

"Even if they did," Sherlock replied in a huff. "They would have no _reason_. They've lost. Sentenced to life in prison. Nothing on those files could condemn them further. Unless Britain suddenly decides to bring back capital punishment…"

"They may be two murderers, but they're also talented conmen," pressed Basil. "

"Mm, technically, we could only get Mortlake on a murder charge. Moran was harder…he was convicted only of drug possession."

A small rodent scurried across the car's path and Sherlock accidentally stopped too short. Basil flung forward. After the boy recovered, he let out a revolted grunt.

"That's _it?_ This _terrorist_ with an enormous body count was tossed away just for carrying _cocaine?_ "

"And selling. It was lucky, really. Your mother and I were struggling with him the most, but it was better to accuse him of something rather than nothing. It was the only thing we could prove. Moriarty's favorite henchman lived up to his name…The government had been searching for a reason to lock him up, and it eventually arrived on a silver platter. My only regret is that we wasted so much time focused on his larger crimes. "

"Must've been a switch for you to play the narc," Basil scoffed. "So, those people he killed were hardly avenged. And, the public has no idea what a shitty person he really is."

"Yes," Sherlock stretched out the 's', unsure what his son's point was.

"What if someone is doing all this to…y'know, protect his image?"

"Who on earth would go to all that trouble? He's already a criminal, not much can be done about that. Proving he's a murderer this late in the game is hardly a detriment to his current condition."

Basil merely shrugged.

"Whoever it is…they'll be sorry."

Sherlock knew better than to laugh at his son's seriousness, but the words sounded so plastic spilling from Basil's mouth. He was hotheaded, prone to moodiness, but never, ever violent or unjust. Sherlock always wondered whom he had inherited his emotional disposition from.

* * *

 _16 ½ Years Ago_

 _"It'll have sociopath in its blood. That doesn't concern you?"_

 _They were sitting in a grubby café, picking at an assortment of croissants. The two were ravenous and antsy, having just sat through two hours of legal garble and the unremarkable Mr. and Mrs. Smith trying to prove their worth. After insisting he sit in on the final adoption interview, Sherlock couldn't help but question the couple's ability to cope with a child that was bound to be, at the very least, unusual. He hadn't berated Lorna's decision to keep her relationship to Moriarty a secret, but he hadn't let it go either. "I won't envy the future parents. It's got all the potent ingredients for a serial killer. "_

 _"Stop it, will you? Remembering Jim as a child spooks me enough. He used to look like one of those ghost kids in a horror movie…Mine won't be like that," Lorna insisted. "Besides, we shared a mum, and I think anti-social personality disorder is transcribed from a mutation on the father's side—"_

 _"I'm not just talking about Moriarty's genes."_

 _Lorna took a long sip of her water to disguise her sympathetic smile._

 _"You're worried it'll be like you."_

 _Though Sherlock felt the term "worried" was an overstatement, he spoke candidly without meeting her teasing gaze._

 _"I don't exactly have the most shining pedigree. A psychotic sister, a reptilian brother, and…me."_

 _"What about you, exactly? I thought you liked being you. Prided yourself on it countless times."_

 _He knew she understood where he was going, but she wasn't going to let him get there easily. She was going to taunt him, mock his interest in their progeny._

 _"It wouldn't have many friends," He pointed out._

 _"It would be smart," was her retort._

 _"It would annoy people."_

 _"It would save lives."_

 _Sherlock sucked in a breath._

 _"It would be lonely."_

 _Lorna's expression melted into one of guilt and confusion._

 _"Are_ you _lonely?_

 _"I wouldn't know. Therein lies the problem," Sherlock took another bite of a chocolate croissant, uncomfortable with the gentle way Lorna was staring at him._

 _"You're no sociopath, Holmes. You care too damn much," She grabbed the rest of his pastry and stuffed it in her mouth._

 _No one had ever said it before the way she did-Mycroft had labeled his affinity for people as a flaw, John chastised him for being a robot more times than not, and he himself did not consider "caring" to be even remotely at the forefront of his personality. But the mere fact that he recognized his lack of feeling and viewed it as abnormal said that he was more prone to sentiment than perhaps he'd initially thought. Of course, it had taken years upon years to even obtain one friend, and even now he was still…learning._

 _"Only with practice," He conceded quietly._

 _"Well," said Lorna, wiping her mouth on a napkin. "If you want my opinion, he'd be lucky to be like you."_

 _Sherlock was quick to catch her subtle news._

 _"He?"_

 _"Yeah," She grinned sideways. "A boy. Don't go getting all misty-eyed on me, now."_

* * *

The address they'd been given turned out to be an abandoned video rental store that was severely out of place in the middle of a very empty, dead end road. Nature had begun to overtake the small building, and the windows were covered in thick vines. There was no cell signal. No main road for a mile. And not another soul in the vicinity. A simultaneously cliché and odd choice of location.

"Wait in the car," Sherlock instructed. Even _he_ realized the irony of the order before Basil disobeyed, slamming the door with a haughty look. Sherlock sighed impatiently. "Basil, for God's sake-"

"I know I was being stupid that night." The admission was unexpected, but hit hard. The image of Basil's fear as the gun clicked flashed across Sherlock's mind, coupled with the memory of the exact moment he'd lost his son for good. Never did he think he'd hear those words, sure the boy would continue to blame him for as long as he lived. But, as usual, Basil startled him. "I should've done what you said, and waited," Basil continued. "Truth is, I think I forgave _you_ a long time ago. It was harder to forgive myself for…getting in the way."

"You didn't—"Sherlock had the lie ready on his lips.

"I'm not finished," Basil took a breath. "Your life has always terrified me, I won't deny that. But only because you wouldn't let me be a part of it. Probably since I was about eight, every time I was shooed out your door, I wondered if that was the last time I was going to see you. I never envisioned you as invincible, like everyone else did. It pissed me off to no end that your life was dangerous, and more that you'd chosen that path over…over me. And I _get_ why," He added, seeing Sherlock open his mouth again. "I would've done the same. But if something happened to you on a case, it wouldn't have surprised me. And that's what sucked the most. I felt more abandoned than protected by the fact that we weren't a family."

That was something Sherlock could understand. The decision to keep Basil distanced from Sherlock was to shield him—yet, it was still a choice he'd had to make. It was that, or be a father. Sherlock certainly didn't have a death wish, but he wasn't exactly in the business of playing it safe either. He hadn't considered the worry his perilous career would instill in someone who…cared for him.

"So, when I left the car that night, I wasn't trying to share your spotlight," mumbled Basil, shuffling awkwardly on the other side of the car. "I wasn't unhappy at the prospect of being left out. I was afraid you weren't going to come back. I thought you might make a mistake. I thought I could prevent it." He chuckled slightly. "You're not the only one who's irrational sometimes. Anyway, that's why I have to come."

Sherlock hated being at a loss for words, but he felt that anything he said next would be inadequate.

"You…you don't have to worry about me," He told his son.

"Yeah, I do," Basil looked up with a cocky grin that so resembled his mother's. "You may be a git, but you're still my dad."

The detective froze.

"Oh," he whispered. " _Ohh._ " He'd been a fool. He'd missed what had been plainly there the whole time, but now, at the scene of the final showdown, he'd solved it.

"What?" Basil came around to his side.

Had Sherlock really been that blind? He'd directed too much of his energy figuring out what it meant to be a parent who could protect their child, so much that he hadn't even thought about the reversal. Because on some level, offspring, too, had a biological need to keep their caretakers alive. There was a feeling of responsibility in the modern world, of a person _owing_ their parents something. This entire vaudeville kidnapping had been driven by duty to kin. It was so obvious. And it was Basil who had spelled it out.

"Stay close behind me," He stated as he began to walk, popping the collar of his coat. "And do as I say."

"What if they attack on sight?"

"They won't," said Sherlock with a twisted smile. "I know exactly who we're dealing with."

* * *

 **A/N Sorry short update is short! More explanations and flashbacks and action to come, I just had time for a wee bit of fluff. Thanks for reading and reviewing!**


	12. Sebastian

"Hey, tall and gangly! Wait up!"

Basil's legs were decently shorter than Sherlock's, but it was only after the boy called out that he realized he was several paces in the lead. The overgrown lot was expansive, so they were only halfway between the rental store and the car by the time Basil caught up and drew the detective's attention back to him.

"Despite what you think," Basil panted, trotting to where his father had unwillingly halted. "Other people _don't_ actually know what's going on in your head. How about a little explanation before we go barging in? _Who_ has my mum?"

"This was never a battle against the League. This was a stand-off with one overzealous disciple. Mortlake, Devereux…mere pests in comparison to Moran. Because _he_ was independent. He didn't need other people. He didn't care. But that doesn't mean no one cared for _him_ ," Sherlock tried not to let his excitement show.

"So, what, this is a crime of passion? A former lover of his seeking revenge?" asked Basil.

"No. Worse."

"Great, thanks for clearing that up," Basil could insert sarcasm into any situation, no matter how dire.

Sherlock held up a hand and the two stopped in their tracks. They were about ten feet from the door when it began to rattle. Someone was coming. Though he knew it would not be Sebastian Moran on the other side, he couldn't help but think of the man he'd once claimed a foe.

* * *

 _16 ½ Years Ago_

 _The window was dirty. Sherlock only noticed when he stood directly in front of it, and these days that was only when he was practicing. His violin had been an acceptable comfort as of late, his methodical bowing one of the rare alleviations to his weariness and impatience. But every time he played, he stood in front of the window that was getting dirtier and dirtier. By the time he was finished playing, he would always forget, and the window would remain uncleaned. He wouldn't remember the dirt until the next time he picked up his instrument. It was a vicious cycle._

 _That day, he pretended that the smudges on the glass were the audience members to his private concert. He closed his eyes and matched his breathing to his rhythm._

 _The moment Lorna walked into the flat, however, he lifted the bow from the strings._

 _Instead of portraying guilt for being the cause of the ceasing music, she bequeathed him a snarky look._

 _"Don't stop on my account," She substituted for a greeting. "You know I was already listening on the stairs." Indeed, she'd come into the building roughly five minutes prior, but had waited to enter._

 _"What makes you think I knew you were there?" Sherlock asked, tuning the strings just slightly. He glanced at her briefly, but did not turn, nor remove the violin from his shoulder._

 _"You always play 'Greensleeves' when I'm around."_

 _"I do not. It's merely a warm-up song," defended Sherlock, confused by the accusation._

 _"About a woman who's wronged her lover…I'm flattered, really. You sure know how to pick a person's theme music," She laughed at her own expense._

 _Sherlock rolled his eyes and ran the bow over the strings in a flourish._

 _"You're projecting. You do not weigh that heavily in my mind."_

 _"Then why'd you stop?"_

 _"I've finished."_

 _He heard Lorna fake a sigh as she wandered through the kitchen._

 _"You may not wear your emotions on your sleeves, Holmes," She said, rifling through the fridge until she decided there was nothing she wanted. "But you can't escape them when it comes to music."_

 _Sherlock laid the instrument down in its case and clicked it shut. He faced her full on and saw what he had both expected and detested to see. His eyes must have betrayed him because Lorna could see he'd been disturbed. She approached him cautiously, trying to read his sudden shift in demeanor._

 _"Holmes? I was only joking. I didn't—"_

 _"Since we're already playing a game of deductions," He cut in. "I believe that makes it my turn."_

 _Lorna unconsciously took a step back, but kept her face stone._

 _"You are not returning from the doctor's appointment you pretended to have scheduled for this morning. It was clever to put it in your phone calendar, thinking I would check there for confirmation. I'd say you almost had me, but that'd be generous. Instead, you threw caution to the wind, and visited the one person you were warned to stay away from. Our dear friend Sebastian Moran."_

 _He moved closer to her, and this time she remained rooted to the spot._

 _"Ask me how I know," He said dangerously._

 _Lorna swallowed hard, but couldn't speak. She responded with a shake of her head. Sherlock took it upon himself to drive home the proof. Without warning, he snatched her arm and drew up the sleeve. On the underside of her bare arm were a series of small bruises that had been expertly inflicted._

 _"Funny thing about serial abusers," Sherlock mused, holding Lorna's limb up to the light. "They learn to leave marks in places easily hidden. But they still leave marks."_

 _She ripped her damaged appendage from his grasp and shoved her sleeve back down. Her anger was lifting her shoulders up and down, but still she remained silent. It was likely she hadn't thought up a good enough excuse for her actions._

 _"Tell me the one thing I don't know," said Sherlock, keeping his voice from becoming flammable. "Do you truly enjoy tempting fate? Or are you just unlucky?"_

 _"Dunno. Maybe I just get high off of it," She could spit retorts faster than she could defend herself._

 _He responded with a look that plainly read, "Touché."_

 _They were silent for too long before Sherlock resorted to tending to the victim rather than blaming her. Perhaps honey would succeed over vinegar. He reached over and delicately cupped her cheek in his hand, like he had seen John do to comfort his crying daughter. Lorna flinched, but did not pull away. She met his grey eyes with ones that were swimming with fear._

 _"Why?" He whispered._

 _"Don't make me say it. Please."_

 _He spared her._

 _"I understand, Lorna, that you continued to see Sebastian out of good strategy. You predict he will win this fight and fill Moriarty's shoes, as he is far more adept than his competition. You feed him information about the others to keep him happy. If you don't, and we can't manage bring him down, he will kill you. That, I understand."_

 _"What I fail to comprehend, is your attraction. You could correspond with the man digitally. This face-to-face contact, from which you return battered, could easily be avoided. What is it that tethers you to him?" He let the rhetorical question dangle in the air before launching into his concluding process. "Loyalty, possibly. Trust, less likely. But,_ lust _. Now, there's an addicting motivation."_

 _"I don't mean purely sex, though I suspect a history. My theory is that you long for the company of someone who knows who you were and what you've been through. Even if they're a psychopath. Even if they leave scars you can't erase." His hand drifted down, not to her bruised arm, but to her shoulder, where he knew the wound from the bullet Lorna had taken all those years ago was still visible. "Especially because of that…he's always part of you."_

 _She looked like she wanted to scream, but she merely clenched her fists and tried to seek solace in Sherlock's unrelenting stare. Still, she was quiet._

 _"Have I missed anything?" He asked at last._

 _Lorna mashed her lips together, but knew it was her time to rebut._

 _"He shot me. Seb was the one who shot me," She repeated what he already knew to get a grip on the conversation. "Jim was jealous. Seb…Moran was his favorite, but not just. He adored him like a puppy. He was Jim's plaything. And then, I became his. When Jim found out we'd…well, he wasn't pleased. One night, he called the two of us to a yard. He tossed us each a gun and told us to shoot on the count of three. It was never a fair fight. Not only is Moran a perfect shot, but mine was empty. Jim wanted to teach me a lesson, not to touch his stuff. It was a mercy that I lived."_

 _She inhaled shakily, looking dizzier by the moment, as though she weren't allowing herself enough oxygen._

 _"When he died, I felt free. But it wasn't true. The League was suddenly lurking around my every corner, and I thought Moran was the only one with whom I could have a lasting alliance. You're right. He knows me. But…sometimes I make him angry."_

 _Her tone reminded Sherlock of a guilty child, and he wished he could bring some sense back to her. He quickly imagined himself in a room with Sebastian Moran and two guns, knowing he wouldn't hesitate as he was sure Lorna had. He could have berated her ignorance. He could have left the flat to find and kill Moran himself. But he didn't. Sherlock slowly led her into a stiff embrace. It seemed the next right move. When he felt her hands softly press into his back, he knew she was recovering._

 _"And today?" Sherlock whispered. "What made him angry?"_

 _"Stupid," She was smiling sadly. "It was stupid. I'd done such a good job of hiding it. But, he found out. About the baby. He didn't like the prospect of me being compromised. I didn't react fast enough."_

 _Even maniacs got jealous._

 _"You can't keep these things from me, if you want this partnership to work," Sherlock warned. "From now on, alert me of your business with Moran. I can protect you."_

 _"It's not just me I'm worried about. If anything happened to you, it'd be…" She trailed off, allowing herself to look up at him. Her fault? That she was beginning to love him, he already knew. She had been trying so hard to conceal it, but her warmed cheeks and rapid pulse consistently gave her away. He'd already taken advantage of her feelings once, he wouldn't do it again. Her affection, as affection often did, got in the way of the mission at hand._

 _"You came to me for help," said Sherlock despondently. "I agreed. So, let me help you. Can you not trust me? Even after all this time?"_

 _Lorna gave a jerk of her head to signify she didn't have a satisfactory answer._

 _"I can't trust anyone."_

 _"That sounds…lonely," Sherlock regretted that the world came so easily to mind. Lorna took his hand in hers and ran her thumb along his knuckles. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, but he didn't mind. The touch was calming._

 _"Is it?" She asked quietly. "You tell me."_

* * *

The door opened, and out came a squat redheaded man with tortoise rimmed glasses. He quickly shut it behind him, the ghostly jangling of old bells ringing as he did so. He eyed the two beadily and shuffled forward, his hand twitching at his coat pocket indicating he was armed. Sherlock sidestepped in front of Basil.

"You bring it?" The man said in a thick Serbian accent.

"Don't insult us with such a question," Sherlock replied with a serpent-like sneer. Basil raised his eyebrows at the expert dodge. The man edged closer, holding out his hand for the mysterious final file, and Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not going to just hand it over to some halfwit. I want to speak to her."

"You'll see your girl after."

"I don't mean Lorna. I mean your boss. I assume she's inside, waiting?"

The man let out an annoyed gargle and gestured vaguely at them. "Disarm."

"We have no weapons. Go on, check." Sherlock held out his arms, and Basil reluctantly did the same. The man patted down Sherlock first, then Basil. In Basil's front pocket, he removed a switch blade. Sherlock shot him an exasperated look, to which his son just shrugged. The blade was thrown to the ground, and the man ushered them inside the video store.

The place had been frozen in time. Racks of old DVDs and VHS tapes created a maze throughout the store, and movie posters on the walls looked like haunted portraits in the dark. Dust layered each solid object in view. Sherlock dully realized it must have been difficult to find a building in modern London so untouched. Generally, a place like that would have been dismantled, or else transformed into a fast-food eatery.

"This is where you've been keeping my mum?" Basil said, somewhat amused. "What, have you sentenced her to torture by 80's rom coms?"

"Boss can't resist a touch of nostalgia," puffed the henchman.

They had been led to a door that had a faded "employees only" plate attached. Their guide rapped four times, and Sherlock allowed a smile to slip onto his face.

"Like father like daughter," He commented.

* * *

 _16 Years Ago_

 _Sebastian Moran had accepted Sherlock's invitation. The night after the bombing at Selfridge's, he knew it was time for the illusive foil to come out of the dark. But, perhaps, not too literally. They stood facing each other in a dim alley between two closed warehouses. He could hardly see the villain's face, but he could just make out his menacing grin._

 _"Thanks for meeting me in my office," Moran joked. "I'm a fan of gang movies. The abandoned alleyway just has so much charm and mystique."_

 _"It's boring. Cliché," Sherlock was not in the mood to humor the man._

 _"Cliché is sexy." The way Sebastian twisted out the word reminded Sherlock chillingly of Moriarty._

 _"You're not going to stay afloat much longer, Mr. Moran. Consider this an official warning."_

 _"Maybe you don't understand," Sebastian chuckled. "Last night, everything changed. Ol' Sal is ash. Lorna now has the evidence to convict silly Edgar. That leaves me, the new Napoleon."_

 _"If you think I'll let that happen—" Sherlock began._

 _"Let it? Boyo, it's already happened. Power cannot be destroyed, just…transferred. It's like, um, like, um, you know!" He snapped his fingers. "Arch Duke Ferdinand? His death caused a schism. People need to be controlled, and when there's a disparity of power, you get World War I. Here I am, to restore balance."_

 _"Crime is not balance."_

 _"You can't know justice without corruption," said Moran in a scholarly lilt._

 _"You won't last. Jim didn't, and you're not even half of what he was."_

 _"Jim had an unhealthy obsession with you," Moran hummed as if Sherlock's jab had been no more bothersome than a fly. "I hated it. What makes you so special? Even Lorna went crying to you. But she's always been weak. That's what used to make her fun. Sadly, I believe that bitch has outrun her usefulness."_

 _Instead of playing into his threat, Sherlock continued to narrate what the two men already knew for the sake of stalling._

 _"You were using her as much as she used you. You knew she'd go for the others first, leaving you the last free member of the League."_

 _"Sure. I could've done it myself, but you two were the perfect little helpers. All I had to do was sit back on my throne…I'm thrilled you wanted to meet so I could give you a proper thank-you," Sebastian winked._

 _"Don't mention it…"_

 _"There, now you've got me monologuing. Not my best to be sure, but then again, you haven't really earned a good one. To the point, at last. What do you want?" His tone turned from polite to poison in an instant._

 _"Actually," Sherlock clasped his hands together. "I'm here as a curtesy to you."_

 _"In what sense?"_

 _The detective stepped deeper into the shadows in which Moran hid. He could see a well-kempt man in a fine suit, looking abnormally normal for what he was._

 _"I'm going to divulge what Lorna did not dare," Sherlock hissed. "One bit of information Devereux revealed before his demise last night."_

 _"I can assure you the man had nothing on me," But Moran had lost his air of confidence._

 _"Nothing that anyone would think was of any importance, given your heartless nature. But something that suffices as prime blackmail in any world. He told her a name. Jenifer Taylor."_

 _"I don't know who that is," Sebastian said at once._

 _"Oh, lie until your face turns blue. Not only do I know what she is to you, but I also know where to find her."_

 _"Are you threatening-"_

 _"I'm proposing that I have the ability to take her away. I'll make this very plain. Don't come near Lorna. Ever. Or—"_

 _Moran's reputation preceded him. His gun was out and loaded before Sherlock could finish his thought, which was intensely fast. Sebastian came within an inch of Sherlock, pressing the barrel into his cheek._

 _"What's to stop me? Right here, right now?" He taunted._

 _Right here and right now was when Sherlock's mobile decided to go off. The men looked at each other and Sebastian smiled. He reached into Sherlock's pocket and pulled out the ringing phone._

 _"From a 'Mrs. Hudson'. Important?" He asked, reading the caller ID._

 _Sherlock said nothing. Sebastian swiped the screen and held it to his ear, keeping the weapon pointed at his opposition._

 _"Hello? Mr. Holmes is busy at the moment….Is that so? Well, I'll pass along the message. Take care." He hung up the call and tossed the phone back to its owner._

 _In a surprise turn of events, he stowed the gun, then used his free fist to sock Sherlock hard in the eye. After, he turned abruptly and walked away from the staggering detective._

 _"We'll continue this soon," He called, his footsteps echoing down the alley. "Lorna's having the baby. Go."_

 _Sebastian gave no hint as to why he'd let him go at such a pinnacle moment, but he sensed it would come around to bite him in the arse. Why would the psychopath care whether or not he was present for the child's birth? Dreading the moment they met again, Sherlock decided his only option at that point was to get to St. Bart's._

 _John and Mrs. Hudson were already there when he arrived._

 _"What's happened?" Sherlock snapped. "She's not due for another…"_

 _"It's alright, mate," John said sympathetically. "Could've been stress from last night. But—Jesus, Sherlock, what happened to_ you? _" Sherlock reached up to touch his eye, not noticing the sting until he did so. The marksman must have left another mark._

 _"I'm fine. Where is she?"_

 _John pointed at the door they were standing in front of._

 _"Er, in there. It's still early, though. Go on ahead."_

 _Sherlock could tell from one look that he was going to have to enter the room alone. John was testing his limits. Putting on a brave face, he pushed on the ugly, sterile door. Lorna was sitting upright in a hospital bed, dark circles under her eyes, and sweat already dampening her brow. When Sherlock entered, she seemed taken aback. Clearly, she had not expected him to come._

 _"You look like shit," were his first words. He was relieved when they made her smile, lighting her sallow cheeks somewhat._

 _"Thanks. Your black eye is very dashing."_

 _He came closer to the bed._

 _"How are you-?"_

 _"If you ask me how I'm feeling, I swear to God, I'll give you a matching shiner," but she was smirking through her pain._

 _Carefully, as though she were made of porcelain, Sherlock placed a hand on her smooth forehead. She closed her eyes._

 _"Will you…stay…with…nngh" It was as though someone had stepped on her windpipe, cutting off her air. Her eyes clenched, and she sat bolt upright, writing in pain. Sherlock leapt back, just as two orderlies burst into the room._

 _"We need to get her a pre-op, NOW," one said, coming around to Lorna's bed._

 _"Sir, you need to leave," the other told Sherlock, ushering him towards the door. Between bouts of cries, Lorna heard this and went wide eyed. She opened her mouth to protest but was cut off by more agony._

 _In a flash, Sherlock was hurried out the door and into the waiting room._

 _"You the father?" The orderly asked. Sherlock could only nod. "There's been a small complication. We'll have to take her in for a cesarean, but under the circumstances, we're going to have to ask you to wait out here."_

 _"Circumstances?" But before the question could form, they were already gone._

 _John and Mrs. Hudson stood up and crowded Sherlock. He did not want to speak to either of them, so instead, he hurried from the ward as fast as he could. He could feel John on his heels, but didn't stop until he found an empty hall. He leaned against a window, blackened by the night, and sucked in a breath. John bustled over, panting._

 _"Hey," his friend said, clapping him on the shoulder. "It'll be-"_

 _"Don't say fine. If you think that lying is useful in moments of uncertainty, you've been sorely misinformed."_

 _"You don't know it_ won't _be fine."_

 _Sherlock looked at John, and wondered how he did it. How he lost Mary. How he lived through that. So many times he'd thought about the prospect of losing John, and so many times he thought he'd been prepared for something to happen to someone he cherished._

 _"I'm not a fan of asking 'what ifs', John," he murmured. "But I can't help it…what if this time, I've killed her?"_

 _John put a hand on his best friend's shoulder, and the two stood in silent unity._

* * *

The small office had been turned into a greyscale lair, with white candles serving as the only light on top of dirty plastic desks. A woman stood in front of a laptop computer. She had long brown hair, and was wearing a smock. She was also cleaning blood from her knuckles with a baby wipe.

Basil noticed her knuckles as well. He lurched towards the woman, but Sherlock held him back. He knew she was only trying to entice them into a fight. She turned around to greet her guests, throwing the bloody wipe on a desk.

"Mr. Holmes," She said with a toothy smile. "It's so good to see you again. I read your blog, you know. And this must be Basil, yes? Lorna told me all about you."

The boy started forward again, surely about to attack, either verbally or physically. Again, Sherlock pulled on him. The redheaded assistant came and stood between the two parties, looking sourly at Basil. There was a moment of anticipation before the detective took the reins.

"I believe introductions are in order," Sherlock said professionally. "Basil, this is Jenifer Taylor. Sebastian Moran's next of kin and his only daughter. And…this is my son. I believe you have his mother."


	13. Loyalty

_16 Years Ago_

 _The infant was sleeping, strangely quiet in his plastic hospital bassinette. It must have been an extreme departure from his previous lodgings, but he had acclimated to the world rather quickly. Beside him in the bed, Lorna was drifting off, her hand resting limply on the edge of the baby's encasing. She had been fighting off sleep for hours, despite the concern of the nurses, but finally her body had won. Sherlock simply sat in the small armchair in the corner and maintained a silent vigil. How anyone managed to rest decently with the obnoxious beeping of machinery, Sherlock could not understand, but the two seemed to be doing their best._

 _Mrs. Hudson had returned home, but John had been in and out of the room all night at their beck and call. Sherlock had taken keen advantage of his friend's servitude. When he heard the door gently open and close for the umpteenth time, he didn't even look up._

 _"John, before you get too comfortable, would you run down and get me—"_

 _But it wasn't John who crept in to loom over the bassinette._

 _"My congratulations," Sebastian Moran said silkily. "Or condolences? Children can be such trouble." Basil shifted in his sleep as the man's shadow cast over him, but did not wake. Lorna's eyes, on the other hand, had sprung open._

 _Sherlock stood up at once, trying cautiously to get between Moran and the infant without startling anyone. Sebastian's head snapped to Lorna, catching her slow, subtle movement as her finger neared the "call" button on the inside of her bed._

 _"I would not do that, if I were you." Both his hands were placed on Basil's container, and though he did not outright threaten, there was no doubt he could and would overturn it in an instant if properly provoked._

 _"Who let you in here?" Lorna's throat was thick with exhaustion, but she looked ready to leap out of bed and strangle the man in front of her._

 _"It's a hospital, not Buckingham Palace," snorted Sebastian. "Though you'll find that if you carry yourself with the right air…you can walk in just about anywhere."_

 _His hands moved to the baby, next. He caressed him like an expert, pulling him delicately up into his arms._

 _"Don't touch him!" Lorna shrieked, bolting upright. Immediately, she winced and clutched at her abdomen where her scar was still fresh. Sherlock remained in place, knowing now that all the power had gone to Sebastian. He had to play his game._

 _Basil whimpered, stirring from his peaceful slumber. Sebastian chuckled down at him, rocking him gently from side to side._

 _"Oh, good, he's got Mr. Holmes' hair. How precious. Has he melted your stone cold heart yet, old boy? I hear that's what's supposed to happen."_

 _Sherlock tightened his jaw and ever so slowly inched closer. Sebastian turned back to Lorna, who was holding in a scream._

 _"Did he tell you about our little chat this evening?" He asked. Lorna looked from Sebastian to Sherlock in confusion and anger. "Ah. Not quite the happy alliance I thought, perhaps."_

 _"It's been a busy night," Sherlock said dryly._

 _"Then I'll explain," said Sebastian. "The father of your child, Lorna, came to me tonight to threaten my daughter. An innocent girl."_

 _"Holmes, what the hell's he talking about?" Lorna's voice quavered._

 _"You should know," Sebastian continued as though she had not spoken. "That I don't care. I haven't seen Jenifer since she was two. A well-kept secret, save for Devereux's final betrayal. She'd be about—what, eight, now? She lives with her mother, a dirty crack whore with whom I happen to have a business relationship. You intend to take her away from her mother, force her into an orphanage, just to hurt me? Fine. I daresay she'd be better off. But, you see, if anything happens to her, her mother will no longer affiliate with me. Sentiment is terribly bad for business, but unfortunately I have to compromise with the weak-minded."_

 _"I may not have a parental bone in my body, but you two do. So, to coin a phrase, I'll make this very plain: Do not come near my offspring, or I will do so much worse than you can possibly imagine to yours. Don't speak. Nod, if you understand."_

 _Through her tears, Lorna nodded. Sherlock gave a stiff jerk of his head. He felt it was safe enough to hold out his arms to take back the newborn. Sebastian moved to comply._

 _"Whoops," His hands slipped and the bundle looked like it would surely fall. Lorna choked on her cry. Sebastian, however, laughed, holding Basil as firmly as before. His sleight of hand trick had the intended effect. Sherlock had almost dove to catch the child out of instinct. He placed the baby in Sherlock's arms, and moved over to Lorna's bedside. She was trembling, but frozen at the same time, while he planted a kiss on her forehead._

 _"Good girl," Sebastian whispered, and he was gone._

 _When the sounds of the room became only the beeping machines and Lorna's heavy breathing, Basil fell back into a deep sleep. Somewhere in the back of his whizzing mind, Sherlock registered that it was the first time he'd held the child. His child. He looked down and suddenly the creature in his arms felt entirely different. He suddenly felt…real. It was terrifying._

 _Sherlock placed him in his makeshift bed, and waited for what he anticipated to be a row with the bedridden woman._

 _"How could you do this to me," Lorna said weakly. "I told you the name of his daughter under pain of death. It wasn't up to you to—"_

 _"He's breaking," Sherlock said quietly._

 _"He—what?"_

 _"He wouldn't have come here if we hadn't hit him where it hurt. If he didn't think he was truly in danger. Didn't you listen? He slipped up. Blathered without filtering. In doing so, I believe he told us what we need to know," Sherlock sank wearily into his chair, closing his eyes. God, he wished he could sleep as easily as that baby._

 _"We can exploit his 'business relationship' with the dealer," Lorna understood. "That'll get him carted off."_

 _"Yes. It's a lead, at least."_

 _"If he doesn't kill us first."_

 _"Yes."_

 _Sherlock opened one eye and looked at the bed. Lorna had pulled Basil closer to her and was staring at him with more fear than he'd ever seen on her features._

 _"This may have been a mistake," She murmured._

 _"Not too late," sighed Sherlock. Any family would adopt such a child in a minute._

 _"Yeah, it is," She smiled as a tear rolled over her lips. "I love him."_

* * *

Jenifer Taylor held out her hand politely to shake Basil's, then Sherlock's. It was the hand from which she had just removed the splotches of blood. She continued to grin like the Cheshire cat as she removed her smock, and fluffed her hair, loving every second she made them wait. Her assistant had moved in front of the door, blocking the exit in a grossly common way.

"Alright," Jenifer swooped her hands to her hips. "Give it to me."

"Lorna first," Sherlock arched his eyebrows.

"File first," was the simple reply.

Sherlock chuckled brusquely, much to the woman's displeasure. It was sixteen years ago that he'd even seen a picture of her. An eight-year old with two missing teeth whose photo was posted on her school's homepage, in honor of her achievements in the local maths competition. She was certainly different now. Equally jovial, but every smile had a bitter hollowness. No, he had not checked up on her since Moran was incarcerated. That was his mistake.

"Why all this drama?" He asked contemplatively. "Your _daddy dearest_ hardly knows you. He's been in prison most of your life. Why so much effort to destroy what no longer will have any effect on his future?"

Jenifer hesitated, worried any explanation she gave would send her falling into an invisible trap.

"He reached out to me, not too long ago," She said. "I'd written him letters. Ones I thought he'd tossed away. But he'd read every single one of them. He's a good man, with good plans."

"Plans for _after_ his life sentence?" Sherlock scoffed.

She smiled daintily.

"How _thick_ are you? Obviously I wouldn't need these files destroyed if I thought they could do no harm. Sebastian is currently in negotiations with his lawyer. It's looking like he'll be let off early, on good behavior. And, a little influence in the right places, of course."

A hitch Sherlock never anticipated, but immediately felt foolish not to have. If Moriarty had been able to talk his way to an innocent verdict, his apprentice would likely be just as capable. Even if it had taken Sebastian years.

"You can't be tried for the same crime twice," Jenifer continued. "And, they can't add to charges once you're convicted. But when he's free, those files could prove to be troublesome. For instance…evidence of more of his unsavory actions might land him right back. I'm just trying to pave the way for a clean slate."

"They're…letting him out?" Basil was still trying to process.

"She didn't tell either of you?" Jenifer looked in faux astonishment from Sherlock to Basil. "Lorna knew weeks ago, that's why she went to all that damn trouble to hide the hard copies."

"You still haven't answered my question. _Why_ do all this for him?" repeated Sherlock.

She blinked and cocked her head to one side.

"He's my father," she said, as though the morals were evident.

"A father who abandoned you," Sherlock put his hands behind his back and began meandering about the small office space. "A father who could care less about your existence except when it is useful. A father who siphoned everything he could from your mother, leaving you and her to rot in poverty."

"My mother was an idiot," Jenifer growled, though her eyes were shaking.

"Clearly you take after her," he was becoming impatient, and that made him volatile. "What did he offer you? Money?"

"A partnership," said Jenifer, the smile completely erased from her face. "He and I…we would be unstoppable."

"And what makes you think he wouldn't drop you like a hat the moment you become irrelevant?"

"He's changed!"

"How would you know?" They stood in silence for a moment, Basil edging closer to Sherlock's side every second. The detective looked at the woman he'd just tormented and sighed. "Jenifer, you don't have to do this."'

Two clicks and two guns were on the Holmes boys in an instant. The assistant at the door and the deranged woman had them sandwiched.

"The last file," Jenifer said, breathing rapidly. "If you please."

Sherlock held up his hands, and with a nudge of his elbow, encouraged his son to do the same.

"I don't have it."

"LIAR!" She wasn't holding back her anger anymore. Kicking over a desk chair, Jenifer stormed over to a supply closet in the corner. She ripped open the door and aimed her gun inside. "Someone better tell me where it is. Now."

Tied to a chair with an excessive amount of duct tape, gagged and wrathful-eyed, was Lorna. She looked like she hadn't seen the light for some time, and shrank back when the closet door opened. She took in Sherlock and Basil and, through the grime and bleeding scratches on her face, rolled her eyes. Part of Sherlock wanted to laugh, but didn't. He knew he would pay for letting Basil come along.

"Mom," their son said hoarsely. He started to run towards her before Sherlock could stop him. He didn't even make it close before Jenifer kicked him in the stomach, sending him flying to the ground. Lorna rattled in her chair, her screaming completely muffled by her gag.

Sherlock went to the boy's aid, helping him to his feet while bestowing a harrowing glare upon the assailant.

"Do not touch him."

"Or what?" Jenifer sneered.

"She might kill you."

Jenifer didn't have time to look before Lorna had swept her off her feet with her unbound legs. She had scooted close enough for a perfect shot. The adrenaline from seeing her son in pain could make a mother do just about anything. Jenifer dropped the gun and cried in agony. Sherlock dove down to catch the weapon and immediately pointed it at the harried assistant, who wasn't sure which direction to be aiming in. Basil slid across the ground in the commotion to get to his mother, where he began ripping off the tape.

"Shoot them! I only need one alive," Jenifer shouted as she clamored to a standing position.

The stand-off between Sherlock and the red-headed man only lasted a few seconds. The man did not want to risk death, a fortunate display of disloyalty. It was interrupted by the sound of quickly approaching sirens. On his command, Mycroft had called the police.

"Shit," Jenifer shouted. "Oh, you bastard! Humphrey, go, GO!"

She pushed Sherlock out of the way and ran for the door, followed closely by her lackey. They were alone in the store when the police lights could be seen out front. Lorna removed her gag and the rest of the tape and threw her arms around Basil.

"Oh my god, oh my god, are you alright?" She squeezed him so tightly, Sherlock thought his eyes might bulge.

"….armf clerff" Basil's words were stifled by his mother's shoulder.

"What?" she pulled back to look at him.

"Anti-climactic," Basil shrugged. "I thought she would say something like 'You haven't seen the last of me!'"

Lorna sobbed out a laugh and hugged him again. Sherlock stood by the door, watching at an awkward distance as the two reunited. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" he heard her whisper over and over again. It was not his place to join them.

"I think it's safe to say we haven't seen the last of her," Sherlock muttered, popping the collar on his coat and turning to leave. He'd go greet Scotland Yard…and allow the family to begin to heal in peace.


	14. Trust

As per protocol, Sherlock walked into the overgrown parking lot with his hands behind his head to face the five police vehicles and one ambulance that had surrounded the tiny store. It was somewhat of a thrill to be caught in the strobe of the flashing lights, but the high was unsubstantial in the waking reality that he had failed that night.

He heard the shouts as he exited, the lag in which the officers surmised he was not the villain they were looking for, and patiently waited for the chaos to cease so the real work could begin. The disappointment in Lestrade's face as he rushed up to the empty-handed detective was pitiful, and only hardened the blow of what had essentially been a huge waste of time. Except, finding Lorna. That…probably wasn't a waste of time.

"They get away?" Lestrade puffed out as he jogged over. "The kidnapper?"

"Missed them by _that_ much," Sherlock made a small space between his thumb and index finger. "Jenifer Taylor and her lackey. Put out an APB, or whatever it is you do."

"Hold on, what happened in there?" said an exasperated Lestrade. "Condition of the hostage? Intention of the criminal? Did you get _anything_?"

"Lorna is fine. She's inside. She had something Taylor wanted, and refused to give it up. Simple," Sherlock was distracted, scanning the cavalry for one person in particular. It struck him, though, that perhaps a man of Lestrade's position, had more of an _in_ than he let on. "Did you know?" He asked suddenly.

"Knew what?"

No, of course he hadn't. He was too trustworthy. Gently, Sherlock pushed past the man and walked deeper into the fray. Lestrade hesitated, about to interrogate him further, but instead called over the medics to tend to the victim still in the ramshackle building. A sleek black car had just pulled up discretely behind the barrier of police, but it was exactly what Sherlock had been waiting for. Before he could approach, three doors opened and out hurried John, Rosie, and Mycroft. Sherlock ignored the concerned and questioning faces of the Watsons and trapped his brother in his glare.

"Why the _hell_ didn't you tell me?"

Mycroft shuffled in an oddly goading manner.

"A thank-you for calling the police wouldn't go amiss," He said silkily.

"They didn't arrive fast enough."

"It's the thought that counts."

Sherlock looked like he was about to hit Mycroft with everything ounce of energy he had left, but John stepped in between the siblings.

"Sherlock, calm down!" John persuaded, confused. His friend ignored him.

"Say it!" Sherlock shouted at Mycroft. He wasn't strong enough to keep his cool, not when his snake of a brother had withheld what he had. "Tell me you _knew_ all along!"

Mycroft looked down with a weary expression.

"I knew."

"Then _why—"_

"What are you talking about?" John's voice rose to match Sherlock's. " _What's_ going on?"

"I learned that Sebastian Moran's charge was reduced to a minor felony," Mycroft explained, keeping his eyes on his younger brother. "He will be released on the first of the month, for time served."

John opened his mouth, then closed it. He leaned in, simultaneously holding an arm outstretched behind him to keep Rosie at bay.

"Is that a bloody joke?" He hissed. "How did he manage that?"

"Friends in the right places. And a good lawyer, I presume," drawled Mycroft, taking the opportunity to take a few steps back from Sherlock.

"Now he's sent his daughter to retrieve any evidence of crimes he had yet to be charged for. The dozens murders he was conveniently not convicted of, for instance," spat the detective. "Moran will do whatever it takes to ensure that information never sees the light of day. Lorna is a target. _Why didn't you tell me?_ "

"Because I asked him not to."

The four turned in unison as Lorna's voice joined the conversation. She was limping, a side effect of the twisted ankle she must have given herself while kicking her kidnapper. Basil was at her side, trying to aid her walk, but as usual Lorna did not like accepting help. She refused to look Sherlock in the eye, a habit she'd fallen into whenever she felt guilty of something. John sped over and led her to the hood of the car, which she leaned against with an exhale. "Easy, easy," the doctor advised.

Sherlock was not nearly as sympathetic.

"In what universe was it a smart idea to keep this from me? I could have helped. I could have—"

"I was the only one who _needed_ to know! I never dreamed she would find out about the last file. I still don't know how…" She winced slightly as she put too much weight on her ankle. "It was supposed to be straightforward. I give her what she wanted, I buy myself time before Moran's release."

"Oh, _brilliant,_ " sneered Sherlock. "And then what? You wait around to be taken out?"

"I put you on the case, didn't I?" She said pleadingly. "I kept you involved without being… _involved_. I needed time to negotiate with her, and I knew you'd never agree. You weren't completely out of the loop."

"Any _more_ 'out of the loop' and I would have been solving your _murder_!"

"Shut it! Both of you," John had the role of peacekeeper forced upon him. "Now's not the time. Lorna, you've suffered a trauma and you need medical attention."

She looked ready to argue further, but one side glance at her still panic-stricken son was all she needed to comply.

"Come on, Mom," Basil said quietly as he directed her towards the parked ambulance. Even with the British in his background, he never did refer to her as "mum". Sherlock noticed Rosie trying to meet Basil's gaze as they walked passed, but the boy remained sullen. Even _her_ presence couldn't calm him, despite her usually reliable ability to life his spirits.

Sherlock made to follow them, but John held him back.

"Give her space," He warned. "I've got a feeling she'll tell you all you need to know in due time."

"Funny, how things never change," Mycroft purred from behind the two. "Even after all this time, she's still your most obnoxious client. What are you going to do, Sherlock?"

"Take her back to Baker Street. Hide her and the final file from Jenifer Taylor until Moran is free. Then, it'll be a race to see if he kills her before she leaks the information."

"You're a detective, not a marathon runner," John said. "Surely there must be a way to nip this in the bud?"

"Perhaps if I had known _sooner…_ " Sherlock glared at his brother, who looked unfazed.

"You can't blame me for making the same mistake _you've_ made countless times," Mycroft sighed.

"What mistake is that?" snarled Sherlock.

"Trusting her."

* * *

 _16 1/2 Years Ago_

" _Do you trust me?"_

 _Sherlock had asked her the question many times before. He only asked it in moments were he was the most unsure of her, times when she disobeyed him or acted too secretive. He thought her response might prompt_ him _to trust_ her _, more than the other way around. Never once had she wondered it of him. Never, until that evening._

 _She hadn't left the flat in the two days following her interrogation. She'd been mostly silent, brooding about her uncomfortable first-meeting with Mycroft and nervous about what Sherlock's reaction would be to the discovery of her family history. He'd let her mope. When at last she crept from her room and approached him from behind as he sat at his computer, she was ready to return to the game._

 _"I'm sorry I didn't cooperate with your brother," Lorna had begun, taking the seat opposite him. "There's a lot I'm not at liberty to say, especially to the British government."_

 _"I'm sorry I let him take you. He's not very pleasant, I'm afraid."_

 _She smiled slightly._

 _"Now that we're done apologizing for things we're not really sorry for," She said, leaning on her elbows. "Don't you think we should have a talk?"_

 _"About what?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows, not looking up from his computer._

 _"You know what Moriarty was to me, now. A shitty, older half-brother, whom I saw on weekends and holidays since I was a baby. You're not the least bit upset I didn't tell you?"_

 _"It doesn't change the facts of your case. Why should I care?" He feigned disinterest impeccably._

 _"Because, he still torments you as much as he does me. I share blood with your nemesis. Why are you still putting up with me?"_

 _Sherlock shook his head and pressed his hands together to rest his chin upon._

 _"Moriarty is dead. You are not him."_

 _"What if I'm like him?" Through it was the first time she voiced the concern, Sherlock was sure it was a question Lorna had asked herself all her life._

 _"You're not._

 _"How do you know?" She pressed. He took a breath. It was like trying to calm a frightened child, something he'd never done before._

 _"I know," He assured her. "I judge character for a living."_

 _Lorna did not seem convinced, but she let it go. She helped herself to an open box of ginger snaps on the table, and stared out the window while she crunched._

 _"I wasn't prepared to see him again," She mused. "When his face was blasted on tellies all across the country, I thought I was dreaming. Did you?"_

 _"I rarely dream. I did have a moment where I thought, perhaps, it was a drugged hallucination…I was about to be exiled when the call came in," Sherlock remembered._

 _Lorna's lips looked like they were fighting to open, but she was struggling to say what she wanted. Finally, she sighed._

 _"The day you came back from the dead, was the day I came up with all the possible ways Jim could have survived. It was me and Sebastian who examined his body. Maybe there was something I'd missed. It's possible to survive a bullet through the brain if you take the shot as exactly the right angle. It could have been an elaborate stage effect. Your trick made anything seem possible."_

 _"He was gone before I took the fall. I watched him die," said Sherlock._

 _"I know. I told myself that there was no way, over and over again. But, one day, there he was. 'Did you miss me?'" Her imitation was chilling. "The League had no idea how the footage was leaked. Someone must have been hiding Moriarty. That's what sparked the rift between them. It was too little too late when you publicly announced that they had been prerecorded messages. Their trust had already been shattered."_

 _"Trust is such a strange thing," Sherlock muttered. "It's incredibly flighty."_

 _That was when she said it._

 _"Do you trust me?" Lorna let the words fall out fast. She was anxious for the answer._

 _"No." He told her what was true._

 _"What about in this moment, at least? If trust can change, don't think about the overall. Right now, do you trust me?"_

 _Sherlock looked at her. What was she to him? A client. The woman now carrying his child. Perhaps, even, a friend._

 _"Do you need me to?" He asked her quietly. Her answer was in her eyes. "Yes. I trust you in this moment."_

 _She stood up and moved around the table to kiss him briskly on the cheek. Lorna tried to use her affection to make up for when she'd pushed him too hard. He always accepted it, frozen and without reciprocation. This time, as she began to walk away, he took hold of her hand. It was trembling. It usually was. He didn't know where the impulse was coming from, but before he could analyze it he was standing above her and pressing his lips to hers. Softly. Briefly. Enough to show her in a way she could understand, that she mattered to him now. When he pulled away, the look on her face was one of unexpected sadness. Sherlock was confused. Before he could ask why there were tears in her eyes, she whisked herself out of the room and off to bed with a quiet "goodnight."_

 _It had been the first time they'd touched like that since that one night. He thought she enjoyed that kind of touch. Her heart rate certainly implied as much. What had upset her? Sherlock shoved the wasteful thought from his mind. There was no reason to worry after her. Lorna was too much trouble than she was worth, and not just because of her lineage. It was because he was finding he actually cared about her happiness._

* * *

When no more could be reaped from the scene, it was time to go…well, home. Mycroft was to return back to their parents', while team Sherlock would make their way back to Baker Street. Somehow the Watsons, Basil, and Lorna all fit in the cramped car Sherlock had taken. Before he got in the driver's seat, Mycroft appeared and put his hand on the door.

"Do be careful," He said sincerely.

"Keep me posted," Sherlock replied shortly. "Of everything."

Mycroft merely nodded, and let his brother go.

Having received next to no sleep for the past 48 hours, Lorna, Basil, and Rosie were passed out in the back seat within a matter of minutes. John was up front with him, keeping his eyes glued to the road. Rarely had he seen Sherlock drive, and he was clearly not at ease with the prospect. Sherlock looked in the rearview mirror and got a full view of Lorna slumped against her son, sleeping with her fists balled. So much for using the ride to question her.

"I know you're upset," John said softly, reading his mind. "But try to keep your temper with her."

"No promises."

"You're only angry because you care," John reminded him. "Admit it. You're relieved she's alive."

"For Basil's sake. Though we'd be in a lot less trouble, now, if she wasn't."

"Sherlock," John sighed. "Believe it or not, she was trying to protect you. I know that's not something you're comfortable with."

"Is that so?" Sherlock was appalled at the accusation.

"It _is_ so. You don't like to be taken care of, even though you need it. Everyone else in your life is just used to helping you in subtle ways. She bends over backwards to keep you safe by omitting the truth, and it aggravates you."

"That's ridiculous. I accept help with dignity. When it's warranted."

He ignored John's snicker.

"And…when it's from you," Sherlock added quietly.

* * *

 _17 Years Ago_

 _John and Lorna were in the sitting room, a safe distance away from the fumes emanating from Sherlock's Bunsen burner. They had become fast friends, bonding over their mutual enjoyment of crap telly and making fun of Sherlock when they thought he wasn't listening. John had been suspicious of the new client, at first, but it was difficult not to get accustomed to someone's presence if they're there nearly every day._

 _"Checkmate, Doctor," Sherlock heard Lorna gloat._

 _"No, hang on, there's another move here, I swear…" John protested, looking over the chess pieces in dismay._

 _"Accept defeat with honor, you've played valiantly," Lorna teased, leaning back in the armchair. Sherlock glanced over from his work. She had indeed wiped the board clean._

 _"Rematch?" John suggested._

 _"No way, I know to quit while I'm ahead," laughed Lorna. "Besides, I better be off. Going to be late for my shift at the clinic."_

 _"We'll let you know how our meeting with Mortlake goes."_

 _John and Sherlock had arranged to meet with the newscaster under pretenses of giving an exclusive interview. The hope was that access to the studio would lead to tips of his disreputable behavior. Lorna had briefed them on his temperament, history, and alliances, but the rest would have to be up to them. Now, all they had to do was pass the time until the appointment. Hence the experiments Sherlock was occupying himself with. Yet, even those couldn't distract him well enough from what was really on his mind._

 _"Bye, Holmes," Lorna peered in at the chemist at work on her way out. "Text if anything goes wrong." Sherlock nodded slowly and moved to his microscope._

 _The instant the door shut behind her, he removed his goggles and practically leapt to his now unoccupied chair across from John._

 _"You've been quiet, today," John said, casually scrolling through his phone._

 _"It's…possible I need your advice."_

 _John looked up, incredulous._

 _"Is the great Sherlock Holmes asking for my sage wisdom?"_

 _"I always rely on you to steer me right," Sherlock said in a blatant attempt at flattery._

 _"Yeah, but you never acknowledge it."_

 _"The point being," Sherlock pressed forward. "I need advice on, er…women. Well, one woman to be exact."_

 _John blinked._

 _"Are you taking the mickey?" He asked warily._

 _"John, I'm opening up to you, could you try to be a bit more conscientious?" Sherlock rubbed his forehead._

 _"This is just historic, is all."_

 _"John!"_

 _"Sorry. Listening."_

 _Sherlock took a breath and sank deeper into the upholstery._

 _"It's Lorna," He said quietly._

 _"She likes you," John smiled. "And, what, you think you might be interested?"_

 _"No! Of course not, how many times do I have to tell you? Romantic entanglement is not something I engage with."_

 _"Then what's the problem?"_

 _Sherlock cracked his knuckles, hoping for an easy way out of the conversation he'd already embarked on._

 _"I…she…I'm fairly certain she's pregnant."_

 _John's eyes widened, excited by the piece of gossip._

 _"Really? Does she know?" He asked._

 _"No."_

 _"So you're wondering if it's your place to tell her?"_

 _"Yes."_

 _Shrugging, John gave a lighthearted chuckle._

 _"Sherlock, there are some things in life you just have to let people find out for themselves. Her personal life doesn't involve you. It's for her and whoever the father is to deal with," He said knowingly._

 _"Yes, well, about that…"_

 _Sherlock fell silent while John waited for him to continue._

 _"What?" John asked, puzzled._

 _More silence. Slow realization melted over the doctor's face._

 _"Wait…" His brain was working too slowly for Sherlock's taste to put the pieces together. "You and…? YOU? Mr. No-Romantic-Entanglement?"_

 _"It was purely for business purposes, part of the case…"_

 _"Sherlock, what?!" John stood up, too shocked to sit still. He began pacing back and forth. "You're sure? You're absolutely sure?"_

 _"I was right about Mary, wasn't I?" Sherlock said. That left John despondent for a moment before he shook his head, trying to clear it._

 _"You're making this up, aren't you? This is a joke?" John sounded like he wanted it to be true as much as Sherlock did._

 _"If only," He replied. "John, I'm asking you as a friend. What do I do?"_

 _John was frozen for a solid moment before bursting into laughter. This annoyed Sherlock to no end._

 _"What about this situation is at all funny?" He snapped._

 _Between fits of hysteria, John, managed to look reassuringly at Sherlock._

 _"It's not…it's just…I never ever would have thought…you knocking someone up…don't you think it's the tiniest bit ironic?"_

 _"Ha ha," said Sherlock flatly._

 _"No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," John actually wiped a tear from his eye. "This is big. I take it back. You should tell her as kindly as possible, and as soon as possible in case she wants to…you know…"_

 _"Get rid of it?"_

 _"Yeah." The mood crashed into seriousness._

 _"How do I tell her?" Sherlock asked. He wouldn't trust himself to be the bearer of such news._

 _"It's not going to be easy. Be supportive Be gentle."_

 _"Not my strongest suits."_

 _John smiled sadly as he returned to his seat. He still looked as though he didn't quite believe a word Sherlock said._

 _"You, though? How do you feel about all this?" His friend was watching him carefully, checking for signs of distress that Sherlock would never show._

 _"I'm not sure," Sherlock drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. "How am I supposed to feel?"_

 _"Dunno, mate."_

 _They fell back into a contemplative quiet, but somehow Sherlock already felt more at ease than he had in a while._


	15. Back to Baker Street

There was every possibility that Baker Street would be the least safe place for them all. Sherlock had played the role of a sitting duck a hundred times over and tended to prevail, but there were many more people at risk than he preferred. As they pulled up in front of the familiar dark door, he glanced into the mirror once more and met the eyes he'd been searching for. He didn't need to speak or change his expression to know Lorna was thinking along the same lines as him. Destructive as she was, she would always be quick learner. Basil and Rosie were still drifting next to her.

"John," Sherlock said in a hushed voice.

"Mmf?" John slipped out of his own shallow doze.

"Drive the children back to your place. All of you, get some rest. We'll regroup in the morning."

That woke John up fully.

"You don't seriously think she'd come here tonight?" He whispered back. "Not while she's on the lam?"

"I don't know what she'll do. But, if she does, I'd rather she find me and Lorna alone."

John sleepily worked through the plan in his head.

"Mrs. Hudson?" He asked, considering the landlady's welfare.

"Surely asleep at this hour," Sherlock assured him.

"Basil won't be pleased."

"He'll understand," murmured Lorna from the back seat. She'd already quietly opened her door.

Sherlock knew she was saying it more for her own sake than for anyone else's. The boy rarely acted as though he "understood" plans of action that involved leaving him out. John silently agreed to the proposal, and the three exited the car. When John took his place in the driver's seat, he looked at Lorna and Sherlock as though he was going to warn them, advise them, or berate them, but couldn't decide upon any so instead rolled up the window and sped off without another word.

Just like that, Sherlock was alone with her. Truly alone. Although, how could one be _alone_ with someone if they were _with_ someone? Whatever the feeling he was experiencing beside her, he couldn't remember the last time it had happened. He knew she would have the first word. She always did.

"Thanks," she said, following him at his heels as the clomped up to the door. "For the rescue."

"Thank your son."

"What happened to our agreement to leave him with your parents if anything happened to me?" She had switched to the offensive.

"He's not a child, anymore. Your little note must have seemed more like a call to action than an order to get to safety," Sherlock shot back.

They climbed the flight of stairs inside and reached the landing in front of the flat. Their tones had automatically dropped in volume, due to the reflex of not wanting to wake Mrs. Hudson below.

"Well, _forgive_ me for thinking he'd be more cautious," Lorna said haughtily. "Especially after—"

"I don't."

"Don't what?"

"Forgive you."

She couldn't help but pout, yet she did her best to shake it off.

"I thought I could handle it," She admitted.

"You thought wrong," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

"I knew you and Basil would be in danger. I wanted to postpone that for as long as I could."

"How many times have I told you not to let emotion overrule your better judgement?"

She smiled crookedly. "Too many to count," she simpered as they entered the flat.

Sherlock was not prone to Déjà vu, but the scene was altogether too familiar as they came into the dark room together, as they had on so many nights in the past. When they were younger. Possibly smarter. Possibly not.

He flipped out his phone and got to work without even removing his coat. Sherlock searched recent news postings for anything signifying any detail of Moran's release. The ex-colonel's trial had been momentous, after all, so the fact that there wasn't even a single word breathed over the internet about the recent development in his case was baffling. Nothing, nothing, nothing. The only people that had known were his idiot brother and the fickle woman by the doorway. He looked up at her, prepared to bombard her with every interrogation technique he'd ever learned, but closed his mouth when he found her staring at him with a knitted brow and a wrinkled nose.

"You're smoking again?" Lorna accused.

"What? No."

"Yes you are," She insisted." How long has that been going on?"

Sherlock foresaw no easy way to lie his way out of the conversation, so, for time's sake, he relented.

"I just need the occasional top off," He muttered, slinking to his chair and crossing his legs in a stubborn flair. "Would you like me to ask how you knew?"

"If it makes you feel better." Lorna said, lazily taking the seat opposite him. John's chair. She knew he hated when she sat there. He could see it in her eyes. She was not playing safe with him, not anymore.

"How?"

"The window's unlocked. You never open the windows, not even when one of your experiments has gone awry. They're always sealed. You would only dare open them to keep the stench of cigarettes from reaching the nose of Mrs. Hudson or John," She was doing well not to let her pride show.

"I could've changed my habits since last you've been here."

"Unlikely."

With a narrowed glare, he reached deep into his pocket to retrieve his lighter and his final Marlboro. He watched Lorna's face remain placid through the flame.

"So…" Sherlock took a long drag. "…What?"

" _So what!?_ " She repeated explosively. "You swore you'd tell me if you were near any of that shit again!"

How did she have the power to derail him like that? She knew what they _should_ have been discussing, and it had little to do with his addiction. Yet, somehow, she was managing to stall. _Him._ He'd been easily swept up once more in her cleverly inserted fit of ADD.

"It's just the cigs. Stop caring," Sherlock instructed haphazardly.

"Not all of us can just turn if off like a switch," Lorna said, leaning her head against the back of the chair to stare up at the ceiling. "You're really clean?"

"As a whistle."

* * *

 _17 Years Ago_

 _"Sherlock Holmes in rehab?" John summarized the plan with an air of amused confusion. "The press will have a field day."_

 _"I'm counting on it," said Lorna as she laid out three dishes for the pizza they'd just ordered. "You two have already piqued Mortlake's interest, news-wise, so if Holmes grants his channel the exclusive story of his 'recovery', that's the best way into his pocket we can hope for. He'll be able to find out a lot more than I ever could."_

 _"I'm not saying it's not a good idea, on the whole," John chewed the inside of his lip while folding paper-towels into presentable napkins. "Though the last time he went head-to-head with a newsman, one of them ended up dead."_

 _Even from the other room, Sherlock couldn't help smirking. This would, however, be a very different lure from the one he'd used with Magnussen. That had been about his relapse. This would be about a noble endeavor. Everyone loves a good redemption story._

 _"And, er, how does he feel about all this?" John tried to whisper._

 _"It was his idea," Lorna said simply. "Although, I might've hinted that it wouldn't be a bad plan…"_

 _Before Sherlock could stomp in and argue that she had in no way influenced his decision, a squeal of childish delight rang out across the flat. The detective knelt under the work table, which he'd been standing by for the past five minutes, and sighed into the face of the blond, giggling 2 year old._

 _"Hello, Watson," He said. "As I believe I explained earlier, one of the most important parts of hiding is to remain as quiet as you can, so that the seeker has no auditory que of your whereabouts. Understand?"_

 _"Again!' cried Rosie, having made no indication that she learned anything from her failure. Her eyes were sparkling._

 _"No," John insisted, entering the room. "Time to wash up before dinner." Much to the girl's chagrin, she was scooped up and carried off to the bathroom by her stern, but fair father._

 _Sherlock wandered into the kitchen just as Lorna was struggling to find three adequately clean glasses in the cupboards. The dining table was tidier than he'd seen in some time, laid out like a proper eating surface._

 _"A bit nice for take-out," He commented. Lorna grinned._

 _"It's your second to last meal as a free man," she said playfully._

 _"Hmm. Free man. Isn't that what people say before someone gets married?"_

 _"Only jerks. Water?" She offered, holding up one of the glasses. "Or…." She looked in the fridge. "Water?"_

 _"The latter."_

 _He was grateful the atmosphere was not stiff between them. It had only been a few days ago that they had found out. They hadn't spoken about it since, and Lorna appeared keen to act like nothing had changed. There was only one small matter that needed to be broached before they could put the situation entirely behind them._

 _"Er," Sherlock started, coming up beside Lorna at the sink. "I made the appointment. Thursday at noon. It's all paid for."_

 _She blinked, frozen for half a second before slowly pressing the cup of water into his hands._

 _"You didn't have to do that," She said quietly._

 _"I know."_

 _"Th-thank you," She looked up at him, the smile erased and replaced with a fragile countenance. "And, again, I'm so—"_

 _"Don't be stupid. There's nothing to apologize for."_

 _"Right. Okay. That's it, then," She breathed out._

 _After Thursday, that would be it. It would be gone. It would be like it was never even a possibility. Everything could continue normally._

 _Their silence was broken by the return of Rosie carried by John, who looked like he'd been the unwilling receiver of a wash more than his daughter, with his front collar soaking wet._

 _"Food's not here yet?" He said, disappointed. "I better give them another ring, make sure it's on the way. Lorna, would you mind-?"_

 _Lorna nodded and took a reaching Rosie, who immediately started patting the woman's blushed cheek once in her arms. Lorna laughed and bounced her lightly._

 _"Lock," Rosie called to Sherlock. She wasn't yet fond of the first syllable of his name. "Do bubbles!"_

 _"Oh, yes, entertain us!" Lorna agreed, wearing the same smile as the child._

 _Sherlock raised his hands in mock-defeat, and pumped a few squirts of dish soap into his hands. He wetted them just enough to get a frothy lather, then formed a lopsided circle with his fingers. He blew through the filmy sheet that had appeared and on the other side emerged a wobbly bubble. Rosie punched at the bubble with her tiny fist, splattering it into nothing._

 _"Now, why would you pop it, Rosie?" chided Lorna sweetly. "Don't you want to see where the bubble goes?"_

 _"Pop," Rosie repeated, pleased with herself._

 _"She knows it's only temporary, anyway. Why not end it by her own hand?" Sherlock grinned down at the girl. Lorna laughed again, shaking her head at his philosophical projection._

 _"Must be weird, having to learn object permanence," she quipped, switching Rosie to her other hip and smoothing the blonde hair with her free hand._

 _"I can only imagine," Sherlock still had on a smile, but as always, it didn't stick._

 _John came back in a huff._

 _"Should be another ten minutes," He said, taking Rosie from Lorna and placing her on the tall pile of books on the chair at the end of the table. Her makeshift Baker Street booster seat. "So, the plan is the 30-day program. I'll be your emergency contact. And, Sherlock," He looked seriously at his friend. "Try to get something out of this, yeah? If you can keep a positive attitude, actually listen to the counselors…"_

 _"I won't go kicking and screaming, if that's what you're worried about. I'll behave. It's for a case, after all," Sherlock rolled his eyes._

 _"Which is why I'm worried it won't actually sink in. If you could find room in that chaotic brain of yours to, I don't know, learn some self-care-"_

 _"God…"_

 _"—Then this could be a good thing for you," John finished earnestly._

 _"I did not consent to an intervention"_

 _"Makes it more authentic," Lora added under her breath._

 _"I'm FINE. Everyone stop caring so much."_

 _John and Lorna chuckled, but they exchanged a glance while they thought Sherlock wasn't looking that clearly said they would most certainly not stop._

* * *

Rehab had not lasted long, not to anyone's surprise. All it had yielded was scattered information on Mortlake's clientele, an earful from Mycroft, and a positive place in the public eye for Sherlock's attempt at bettering himself. Care. Why did people care?

Lorna had not changed too much in seventeen years. The crow's feet at her eyes had become more defined, and she'd lost a bit of the litheness with which she used to carry herself, but otherwise she'd aged with grace. It was not, Sherlock was sure, for lack of trying. She'd fought so hard to stay alive that it hardly seemed fitting she wouldn't do everything in her power to ensure the mature half of her life was dignified. She still had a ways to go to catch up to him in terms of years, of course.

"I _am_ sorry," said Lorna softly. "Really. And you don't have to forgive me."

"Where's the last file?" Sherlock cut in.

She hesitated.

"If I tell you, that's one more person who knows."

"Jenifer already thinks I know. You told her I have it. Why?"

"A few reasons," Lorna said slowly. "First, when she found out one of the files was missing out of what I gave her, she threatened Basil. I wasn't anticipating that. Second, it occurred to me that it would keep me alive longer if she didn't have everything she needed from me. Thirdly, you _do_ have it."

"I have it and I don't know?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"That about sums it up, yeah."

A pause while he waited for her to continue. When she leaned back again, he cleared his throat obnoxiously.

"So _where_ -?" Sherlock began in a growl.

"Holmes, It's the only weapon we—well, _I_ , have against Sebastian. I'd rather it stay as much a secret as I can keep it." She bit her lip. "Do you really need to know? I'll tell you, but I won't like it."

"You expect me, yet again, to follow you blindly. Not just to follow you, but also to _save_ you."

"It's not just about me," Lorna protested. "You want Moran to be kept behind bars just as much as I do. England will be in danger the second he sets foot on the streets as a free man. There's no doubt in my mind he'd become the new Moriarty."

"After all these years?"

"He's had plenty of time to hold his grudges and let them stew," said Lorna darkly.

"Perhaps prison has changed him," Sherlock entertained the thought with a drawl.

"God, _please_ , Holmes!" She wasn't having it. "You're the only other person who knows what it's like to be hunted by a monster no one else can see. Moran is my monster. He's coming for me. I can stop him, I just need…"

"What?" Seeing her in distress still made him feel as tiny and helpless as the first time he'd witnessed it. "Tell me what you need, if nothing else."

She looked across at him, trying to stay calm as she neared her breaking point. Sucking in a shaky breath, she leaned her forehead in her hands.

"I've been living on borrowed time," She said with a sad chuckle. "For a good long while. I shouldn't have even survived this long. You didn't think I would, remember? I knew somehow this would all come back to bite me in the ass." She sighed ruefully. "Here I am, back to square one. Only now I've got a damn kid on the line. _Our_ damn kid. I need him safe."

"And me? What do you need from me?" Sherlock pressed, keeping his eyes on the top of her head in the hopes that she would resurface. She did, and when she did, she looked nothing but apologetic.

"Your help, Detective," Lorna said with a weighted exhale. "I supposed it's only fair I ask you properly, now that I'm back on Baker Street. So, have you…got any time for a new case?"


	16. Alleviation

_13 Years Ago_

 _Strictly in theory, Sherlock understood the concept of pretend play far better than any of the other activities his three-year old was interested in. It was essential for establishing a theory of mind and developing competent social skills. Despite who his father was, Basil was already exceptional at understanding pretense. Sherlock could hardly remember the days of being a pirate in his own youth. Surely, if he had been any good at playing, he would've grown to be a more empathetic adult. Mycroft had always mocked him for being the "creative" one, but in comparison to his older brother, anyone was a better storyteller. He wondered, as he watched Basil parade about the living room with a foam sword, if his knack for fantasy had withstood the tests of time._

 _"HA!" Basil yelled out as he slapped the sword against Sherlock's knee._

 _"Ow," He exaggerated pain carefully—enough to make the boy think he'd done some damage, but not enough to make him think he'd actually been hurt. "Alright. You've got me. What are you going to do now?"_

 _Basil jabbed the tip of the weapon into Sherlock's leg a few more times for good measure._

 _"Walk the plank," The child grinned._

 _Sherlock sighed as he stood up, and slowly placed one foot in front of the other like he was on a balancing beam._

 _"NO!" Basil shrieked. "No, it's over there!" He pointed to the opposite end of the living room. Before Sherlock could half-heartedly mosey over to the "plank", Lorna walked in with a juice box._

 _"What's all the shouting about?" She asked, plunking the straw in the juice and putting it on the coffee table. Basil looked gleeful at her arrival._

 _"Mom, play with me! Dad doesn't do it right."_

 _Sherlock rolled his eyes and ignored the lip-biting smirk Lorna was giving him._

 _"How on earth was I supposed to know where the plank was?" He muttered, falling back down into the armchair. He always felt uncomfortable visiting their home in Cornwall. It was too…homey. It didn't feel real. But, he'd made a promise to show up now and then, and he wasn't about to break it._

 _"Dad's only here for another hour. Why don't we all play together?" Lorna recommended._

 _"Yes!" The boy dropped his annoyance with Sherlock in an instant. "Let's play house!"_

 _"Oh, goody," said Lorna, but her son had yet to learn sarcasm._

 _"You both sleep over there," Basil pointed at the couch. "And I'm the kid, so I sleep here." He tapped the armchair Sherlock was resting in._

 _There was the pretend aspect. His parents didn't live in the same town, let alone sleep in the same bed. Did he think it was odd? Already, society's picture of a normal, nuclear family had been painted in the child's head._

 _"Couldn't we go back to pirates?" Sherlock suggested weakly._

* * *

A text from Lestrade broke the silence that had befallen the sitting room. Lorna was dozing in John's chair, after announcing that she would not sleep a wink that night. At the sound of Sherlock's phone, her eyes fluttered open and she looked at him expectantly.

"No trace of her, though she can't have gone far," said Sherlock, skimming the message. "Take my bed," He added without looking up at the tired woman. "You need rest. You've just been a hostage."

"Mm-mm," Lorna shook her head. "If she comes here, I want to be ready. Has John written back yet?"

"Basil and Rosie are safe, sound, and dead asleep."

"Please don't use the word 'dead' in the same sentence as my son's name." Lorna stood up and began to pace around the room, stretching her arms as she did so.

"As I'm sure I've told you," Sherlock sighed. "If you want my help, you have to heed my advice. Right now, I must insist you sleep for whatever hours remain of the night."

"If you're up, I'm up, Holmes."

The fight had been lost. She was a stubborn as she was reckless, though somehow she had managed to take care of a whole other human life for sixteen years. Sherlock tried to remember the last time the two had been alone together, but struggled.

"You should have turned everything over to Mycroft when you had the chance," He said. "These silly little games of yours…withholding evidence, sending me on a scavenger hunt…it's going to get you killed before you can even conjure a pre-emptive strike against Sebastian Moran."

"I've already conjured," Lorna said, choosing a new position on the couch at the other end of the room. "I release the remaining evidence to the police the instant he's let out of jail. He gets tossed back in."

"Unless his daughter gets to you first."

"Yeah."

Sherlock moved to peer out of the blinds at the window. A silent police vehicle was below, parked in front of _Speedy's_.

"What exactly do you want me to do?" He asked in almost a whine. "The police have set up a perimeter to keep you safe. There's no mystery to be solved. There's only…"

"Waiting. I know."

She said it with an empathetic grimace. It was something they had in common, their deep hatred of having patience and doing nothing.

"If you tell me where the last file—"Sherlock tried again.

"Come sit with me?" She rapped the empty cushion beside her with her fist. He looked at the couch like it was a lurking monster, but something about Lorna's sleepy eyes drew him in. Reluctantly, he joined her.

"I know it's not much of a case. Keeping me company," She said quietly. "I've got a real request, though. Possibly the toughest case you've yet to face, but one I know you'll crack yet."

"Tell me," Sherlock refused to look at her.

"Basil," She tried to swallow the quiver in her voice. "Please. If anything happens to me…it's got to be you."

"…He wouldn't like that."

Lorna chuckled.

"Neither of you would, at first. But you would learn. To be a family." She grew softer, as sleep began to carry her off. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably as her head leaned against his shoulder.

"If I couldn't learn then…what makes you think I'd learn now?"

"Because you'd have to," She said simply.

Sherlock shook his head slowly.

"I could never do what you did. Even if I wanted to."

"Oh," Lorna's eyes widened and she breathed in deeply through her nose, like she always did when she was about to make a deduction. " _That_ was why, was it? You were scared you wouldn't be good enough?"

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock scoffed.

"You had a choice to make when he was born, between the life you had and excelled at…and… _us_. Being a father. It was uncharted territory. You had no idea if you'd be as brilliant at it as you were everything else. I… never realized how hard it must have been to decide."

Admitting when she was right had somehow gotten easier over the years.

"Of course it was _hard_ ," murmured Sherlock. "You really think me that heartless? He's my son."

"I never thought you didn't care. Just that you had your priorities."

They sat close together for a few silent minutes. Sherlock, no matter how hard he tried, still could not imagine what his life would have been had he stayed with her. If he had chosen to go with them into hiding. If he had married her, as most decent men would have done. If he had been there for his child. Even though he could form those "ifs", the images were blurry and unfeasible. There was no possible future timeline of his that had involved leaving London and being…tamed.

Yet, as he smelled the familiar sweet scent of her hair, a feeling he had not encountered in some time stirred within him. It was like a flutter that emanated from every part of his body that touched her.

Her whisper broke his stupor.

"Will you promise me?" The words were hardly audible.

"That I will look after Basil, should anything…?" He couldn't finish the thought for some reason. "Yes, Lorna. I can promise that."

He felt her smile raise her cheeks against his shoulder, and soon her breathing became steady and slow. After a while, Sherlock shifted to look at her. Her eyes were darting back and forth under her eyelids, and he knew she was in a deep state of rest. Carefully, he slid out from under her and pulled her into his arms. He carried her to the door of his bedroom while she barely moved a muscle. Lorna looked so small in his bed. She always had.

Sherlock slid into the chair in the corner of the room by his dresser to watch the sleeping form. She had never been a loud sleeper, but now and then she uttered a small whimper. He wished she would stop. _Just stop hurting_. It was torture. It always had been.

* * *

 _17 Years Ago_

 _Lorna was trying to do him a kindness by hiding her pain. She did not complain in front of him. She rarely even uttered a sound. But her tolerance for such extreme hurt was wearing thin, and whenever she was in his vicinity, Sherlock could sense it._

 _After days of the migraines and nausea that were supposedly a normal part of early pregnancy, Lorna was becoming irritable. What was worse, she refused help of any kind. She would instantly throw up any pain-relievers she tried ingesting. She would laugh off John's suggestions that she take the day off. It was becoming quite clear to Sherlock that the woman hadn't met agony she couldn't endure yet. Lorna was not about to succumb to the torment of the tiny human inside her._

 _Her stubbornness didn't interfere with their progress. She would still come over every day to aid in League-related cases. When she needed to fight a wave of pain, she did it in private, excusing herself to Sherlock's room until it passed._

 _Without knowing why, this bothered Sherlock more and more with each day. Stop. STOP. He wanted to say, but he bit his tongue. If anyone wanted Lorna's pain to stop more than him, it was her._

 _Finally, one day he'd had enough. She had left him at his microscope to suffer alone, as was her ritual. Instead of being absorbed in his work like usual, he found that he couldn't focus knowing she was in anguish in another room._

 _He stormed into his bedroom, unsure if he was feeling anger or worry. There she was, pressing her forehead into her hands and standing in the square of light casted by his window. She heard him come in, but didn't look up._

 _"Sorry," she muttered, keeping her back to him. "I'll be out in a mo'. It's just a bad one."_

 _Sherlock said nothing. He walked up behind her and did something odd. He put his hands on her hips. Lorna's head lifted from her hands, but she didn't turn around. He kept his hands clasped around her. It was the one thing he hadn't tried to alleviate her aching. It was scientifically proven, after all…_

 _When she didn't pull away, he slid one hand lower over the front of her jeans and pressed. Her sharp inhale told him the move was correct, in practice, but when she reflexively grabbed his hand he thought perhaps his theory had been wrong._

 _"What…what are you…?" She whispered._

 _He suddenly felt ridiculous. It had been a stupid idea. He dropped his hands from her and stumbled to explain himself._

 _"I only…thought I could help by…" He stuttered. "A-a surge of oxytocin acts as a natural analgesic, it dilutes pain by refocusing blood to the source and…and…"_

 _She wasn't moving away from him. Quite the contrary, she had slowly turned to face him and was inching her body ever so slightly inwards._

 _"Is that so?"_

 _"Er, according to neuroendocrinology studies in rats," He replied softly._

 _Lorna took both his hands and placed them back on her, gripping at his wrists with an intensity he hadn't known from her the first time they'd been…well, intimate. He felt his own heart beat quicken as he found himself holding her with equal force._

 _"Fine," She said coolly, running her fingernails down the side of his neck. "Show me what you've got, Holmes."_

 _She kissed him first, again, but he was expecting it this time. He was ready for her. Suddenly it wasn't just about reducing her pain—that thought had almost evaporated—but also relieving himself of an itch that had come from nowhere. He lifted her up and against the wall, and didn't even mind the feeling of her unbuttoning his shirt. He didn't mind when she pushed him down onto the bed._

 _Was this attraction? No…something similar, to be sure, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. She was warm. Soft. He wanted her to want him. It made him feel…good? Better? This was not sexual desire on his part. Not attraction. Not at all. This was…_

 _Affection. Damn._


	17. Runaways

He awoke having forgotten falling asleep. Sherlock jolted out of the chair and to his feet, examining at once the body in the bed. The subtle rise and fall of the sheets told him she was alive, and though her face was obstructed by pillows, he knew she was still unconscious. It was early. Mrs. Hudson herself would scarcely be up and about at such an hour. He would have to fend for himself for breakfast.

However, when he gently closed his bedroom door behind him, Sherlock sensed he was not the only one stirring in the vicinity. In a flash, he was at the window. Three police cars were just parking out front and their inhabitants scurrying into the building. Trying not to grumble, he flung open his front door and waited for the intruding officers at the top of the stairs.

"Mr. Holmes?" One of them called. "That's him, innit? Told you he was fine."

"Bit peckish, but otherwise fine," Sherlock yawned. "What are you doing here? Have you caught the kidnapper?"

"Bloody fucking hell, Sherlock!" Lestrade's voice rang out among the crowd. "You haven't been answering your mobile! We thought something had gone wrong."

"What on earth are you talking about?" the detective took out his phone. Sure enough, there were twenty missed calls and even more texts. How had he not heard...? He pressed the volume. Somehow it had been turned to silent. He never left his phone on silent. Then he remembered. He'd switched it off so it wouldn't wake her. When had he done that? The middle of the night? What had compelled him?

"Your son, is he in there with you?" Lestrade pressed. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat.

"Of course not, he's at John's…"

"No, he's not. He and Rosie Watson have been missing for _an hour._ John called it in, he's out looking now."

"An hour? And you're just telling me _now?_ " He was already halfway back inside the flat, shoving his feet into his shoes.

"Well, it's not for lack of trying!"

Lorna appeared at the doorway, eyes still heavy with sleep.

"What's going on?" She muttered. "Is it Jenifer?"

"What? I didn't touch your phone. What's happening?"

"Basil's missing. You haven't heard anything?"

"I was just kidnapped, I don't _have_ a bleeding phone!" She was suddenly wide awake, leaning over the railing to stare anxiously at Lestrade. "Greg, what do you know?"

"John woke up, the children were gone, and neither you nor they were reachable. Come on, we'll keep up the search."

"Oh, God," Lorna was down the stairs in an instant. "I knew we should have stayed with them, it's always a bad idea to split off!"

She hurried into her scarf and tossed Sherlock's coat to him from the rack.

"It's cold," she explained when he gave her an odd look.

They were just piling into one of the cruisers when Sherlock's phone rang, audibly this time. He turned away from the throng and pressed it to his ear.

"John," He said quietly. "Any news?"

"Jesus, Sherlock, where have you been?" replied an exhausted John. "I've been phoning you all morning."

"Never mind that, any _news?_ " Sherlock asked again. From the sound of John's annoyed breathing, he knew at once that everything was fine.

"We found them. Took us long enough, but they're both accounted for. We're here at the station now."

Sherlock hung up without another word. All eyes were on him, as to be expected, frozen in anticipation. He cleared his throat.

"They're at the station," He alerted the crew, who collectively sighed in relief. He looked at Lestrade. "You can call off the search and get back to what matters. Finding Jenifer Taylor."

"Back to what _matters_?" Lorna flared up, but Sherlock ignored her.

Greg frowned.

"It wasn't Taylor, then, that took them?"

"Afraid not. I must apologize on behalf of our brood, but my estimation is that their disappearing act was nothing more than a naïve attempt at heroism. Could anyone give us a ride?"

"We'll need a statement from you, Lorna, while you're down there. If you're up to it."

She was still breathing heavily, as if recovering from witnessing a jump-scare. She nodded wordlessly, then slid into the car under Sherlock's arm as he held the door open for her. The ride was silent for five minutes before Lorna opened her mouth.

"You really think he went after her himself?" She asked quietly.

"You don't?"

Lorna sighed and drummed her fingers on the window anxiously.

"Sometimes I forget he's your son."

That shut Sherlock up.

John, Rosie, and Basil were all waiting in the foyer when they arrived. John was at the front desk, answering questions and filling out a form that could only be a report of the "case" of the missing children. He gave Sherlock and Lorna a stiff grimace when they walked in, and nodded to the two youngsters sitting quietly against the wall. They looked understandably ashamed. Lorna threw her arms around Basil, her anger melting at the sight of him.

"Are you kidding me, B?" She said, swallowing tears but holding him closer. "What the hell were you thinking? After _everything_!"

"I'm sorry, I know," He mumbled. He glanced at Rosie, who had her arms folded tightly across her chest and her eyes on the floor. "We just… _I_ just…thought,"

"We had an idea," Rosie chimed in to save him. "About where she might have gone." She took a breath. "We were wrong. The police found us on our way back home. Nothing happened. We would've been back before breakfast, no harm done, if dad hadn't sent the entire force after us."

"No harm done?" John had turned around and looked lividly at his daughter. "Rosamund, it scared me half to death to find your beds empty. It was a foolish, childish stunt you pulled and don't you dare try to defend it."

But Sherlock only heard one part of that conversation.

"Where?" He asked, inadvertently stepping in front of John. "Where did you think she'd gone?"

It was Basil's turn to explain.

"I was thinking that Jenifer would keep looking for the last file," the boy said. "Time's running out, she wouldn't just off and hide, even _with_ the manhunt on. Since she doesn't have mom anymore, she'd have to work from what she already knew. Mom had brought her all the files from their hiding places, one from every crime scene orchestrated by the Red Handed League. Jenifer knew there was sentimentality in where she put the thumb-drives. Like, they were in places that _meant_ something."

"And?" Sherlock pressed.

"And…I thought maybe she'd hid the last was where the crimes had ended. London Bridge Hospital. Where I was born."

Sherlock looked at Lorna. "The last night you saw Moran outside of a courtroom. An educated, albeit emotional guess," He said.

"But it's not there, is it?" Basil concluded. "I even found the room…"

"No," said Lorna, tight lipped. "Not there."

John had been sitting on his anger for too long.

"There or not, you don't go waltzing out on your own with a kidnapper on the loose! You get a hunch, an urge, you tell one of us. Hell, you call the police before you sneak out of the house! You both could have been killed."

"We're sorry, dad," Rosie whimpered. "We just thought—"

"Yeah, you thought wrong," John scolded. "Come on, Rosie, we're going home. Sherlock, even _you_ can keep tabs on your own son for at least the next few hours?"

"I…" Sherlock faltered at his friend's mutinous glare. Lorna stepped in.

"We're sorry about all this, John. Thanks for…thanks," She said sympathetically. John sighed and put his hands on his hips, as he always tended to do when he needed to calm himself.

"Keep me updated," He said rigidly. "Not her, though," He gestured to Rosie. "She won't have her phone for a week."

"Dad! You can't ground me, I'm not a baby!" Rosie complained.

"Then you shouldn't have acted like one!"

"Right, because _babies_ have the capacity to chase after psychopaths," She snorted.

They continued bickering the entire way out of the station. Then, Sherlock was left alone with free-floating officers, his delinquent son, and his untrustworthy client.

Lorna turned back to the boy, and Sherlock could see she was going to use a parenting technique opposite to the one John had just displayed.

"Basil," she said gently, putting a hand on his cheek. "Did you really think that was a good idea?"

"I just wanted it to be over," He murmured.

"You didn't just put yourself in danger, you dragged Rosie into it, too. John's already lost her mother."

"It was her idea to go at it just the two of us!"

Lorna took a deep breath.

"I know it's going to be hard," She said slowly. "But you've got to keep out of the way. You know if something happened to you, I couldn't bear it."

"Then maybe you should have erased all those files in the first place!" Basil erupted. "If you had just let your past _stay_ in the past, we'd be home right now watching telly."

Lorna blinked.

"That's not fair," was her meager protest.

"No, it's not!" said Basil.

"Is now really the time?" Sherlock interjected before the argument could escalate. The morning had already been wasted, but he couldn't stand to lose any more minutes to family drama.

"Fine, I'll shut up," Lorna threw up her hands. "Do you have anything you'd like to say to him?" She rounded on Sherlock.

"Er…Don't ever do that again."

Lorna rolled her eyes before Basil could.

"I'm going to give my statement. I expect the both of you to be here when I return, or there will be hell to pay."

Once she was gone, Sherlock and Basil fell into the seats.

"She's got a nerve," the boy muttered. "It's her fault we're here in the first place."

"No argument there."

"I mean," Basil was ready for a rant. "How can she be pissed at _me_ for doing the same stupid crap she does? She's such a hypocrite!"

"Your mother believes your recklessness comes from me."

"How does she figure that?"

"No idea," Sherlock shrugged and clasped his hands together. "For instance, I would never have done what you did today. Running off impulsively, not weighing the consequences of my actions."

Basil scoffed.

"Not true. You say things without thinking them through, I've seen you do it. You don't think about how something you say could hurt someone."

"Socialization is a different matter entirely, and not what we were discussing."

"And what are we discussing, exactly?" Basil's anger was flowing away from his mother and back to his father. "How I'm not like you?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and stared at the fern by the door.

"I never said that."

* * *

 _16 Years Ago_

 _The infant had been mewling for a solid hour. Nothing Lorna was doing could bring him into serenity, and it was beginning to grate on Sherlock's nerves. Just over a month old, the boy had so rarely cried in the first few weeks of his life. However, since returning from Christmas at his parent's house, Sherlock had heard the child wail nightly. Usually it was Lorna who tended to him, but in that moment she was rushing around the flat with a suitcase, paperwork tucked under one arm, and an open pen in her mouth. She was in no immediate position to be motherly._

 _He knew it was his duty to intervene. Basil was in a packable bassinette just outside the kitchen, and when Sherlock peered in at him, he stopped his tears. Only momentarily. In fact, Basil began to cry louder now that he knew he'd been heard. He was learning fast for the blob he was._

 _"Alright, Basil," Sherlock did his best not to sound irritable. "That's enough now."_

 _No such luck. The child would not be reasoned with. Logic defied it—he'd been fed, changed, napped sufficiently…What did it want?_

 _"I'll be there in a second, sweet one," Lorna called from the other room, her voice cracking with exhaustion._

 _"I've got him," Sherlock rolled his eyes. She didn't seem to trust him to be alone with his own son. Running out of options, he picked Basil up and held him to his chest. The whimpering continued. He put him back in. No change in his mood._

 _"I'm at a loss," Sherlock finally exclaimed aloud._

 _"Holmes," Lorna's voice rang out again from the other room. "Try playing some music. I think he likes it."_

 _If satiating his basic needs didn't work, Sherlock was dubious a violin tune would calm the baby. Still, he plucked his instrument from its case in the living room and returned to Basil's side. The moment Sherlock's bow touched the strings, his son stopped to listen. The cries faded into hiccups as the song became louder than anything else in the room. Even Lorna had stopped shuffling. It was a Mozart piece. Something simple to begin Basil's repertoire._

 _Basil stared up in wonder, trying to make sense of where the sound could be coming from. Sherlock wasn't sure if he was developed enough to have emotions evoked through music. But there was not nothing in the boy's eyes. He was feeling the melody._

 _Lorna had come in to collapse on the couch. Sherlock paused for a moment when she entered, but Basil's face scrunched up in a pre-scream and he resumed the song._

 _"I think he remembers," She yawned over the music but looked content. "You played while I was pregnant."_

 _"It's possible."_

 _She pulled herself up to her tired feet just so she could stand next to him while she played. Sherlock didn't look at her._

 _"I'll have to record you. So you can play for him after we leave," Lorna whispered._

 _Sherlock didn't reply, but his music became slower and softer._

 _"You already know, though," she continued. "That I don't want to leave."_

 _Basil had drifted off to sleep, and Sherlock saw an opportunity to lower his instrument. Lorna had her arms folded and was staring down at the baby with a bitter smile._

 _"You have to," He reminded her. "It won't be safe for him once you testify."_

 _"I know. He deserves that chance at a normal life."_

 _"So do you."_

 _"I've hardly earned it."_

 _Sherlock laid his violin back in its case, an excuse to turn his back on the woman._

 _"For his sake, I hope you don't believe that forever."_

 _"Well, forever is a long time," She sighed. She did an awful lot of sighing those days. "Did you…do you ever wonder what it would be like to raise him together?"_

 _It was an insensitive question. He couldn't possibly have_ not _imagined it. It was the only thing that would make parting with them easier, because all his projections and fantasies about being a father ended in loss, fear, and injustice. He couldn't wish it upon an innocent. And he didn't want it for himself. It was both selfish and selfless. Two juxtaposing sides of Sherlock were at war whenever he laid eyes on his offspring._

 _"I'm not cut out for it, Lorna," He said. "He was your choice. Not mine."_

 _If the words stung, she did an exceptional job at hiding it. Instead, she faced him with a smirk._

 _"Too bad he looks just like you. It'll be tough keeping him a secret from the tabloids. 'Son of Sherlock' sounds like a show I'd watch."_

 _"I have a feeling he's like you in many more ways."_

 _"That remains to be seen. And if he's not like either of us?"_

 _"We'll have another one," He joked, earning a chuckle. He placed his arm around her shoulder and they looked solemnly at their child._

 _"I'll miss you," Lorna murmured as she leaned against him. "Just in case I forget to say it."_

 _He didn't respond. Something told him she hadn't expected him to, and that that was alright. She would understand he felt the same way._

 _The boy opened his eyes sleepily for one brief moment, and Sherlock could have sworn he was frowning. Already a skeptic. Just like him._


End file.
